


Holster your gun, Hermes.

by ironicHeadtilt



Category: IDubbbzTV - Fandom, Maxmoefoe - Fandom, The Filthy Frank Show (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, By divergence I mean the canon is almost entirely made up but its based on canon, Canon Divergence, Chad isn't really a HUGE part but he's in there, Character Interpretation, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Smut, We're working on 'what ifs' right now, and Chad deserves a little love even if hes an actual moron, because I'm a nice fucking person, but they throw up on youtube for that revenue so fuck em, catching feelings, this is a violation of george and ian as people, will update tags when its less spoilery to do so
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2018-08-15 15:49:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8062381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironicHeadtilt/pseuds/ironicHeadtilt
Summary: George and Ian and Max and Chad and the inevitable feeling that something's going terribly wrong and there's nothing to stop it. Or, more accurately, young bucks in their 20's don't understand emotions or communication and fumble around to reach out to each other.FORMERLY CALLED: "I wanted to call it 'Curious George' ... RIP Harambe"Edit: I'm going to try and update once a week, towards the end of the week.





	1. 'Til Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Begins after Human Cake, I think. I would say it's an exploration of hyper-masculinity when confronted with compulsory heterosexuality through the lens of a "Damned if you do, damned if you don't," homo-platonic situation in which the man has to forfeit comfort in order to not be deemed homosexual, but what's really happening is I'm employing the age-old tropes for my own titillation.
> 
> Note: This story attempts to depict George Miller, the person. This story does NOT contain Frank, the character. Trying to piece together my perception of George Miller from the sparse material I could find is definitely NOT ENOUGH to constitute a solid interpretation of his personality. I'm admitting right here and now I have no authority to define his person/personality. I'm also not conjecturing a secret homosexual relationship between George and Ian. These characters which I have created are based on Ian Carter and George Miller and shouldn't be in any way mistaken as accurate representations of them.
> 
> I don't want anyone getting the idea that "shipping it" is in anyway tolerable outside the realm of personal, non-aggressive fiction. Even that I'm hesitant to defend. George and Ian are real, living human beings and even though their content is disgusting as fuck they deserve reasonable anonymity and autonomy unquestionably respected by their fan bases. This goes for any celebrity, regardless of popularity, gender or sexuality. You can't "head canon" when it comes to real people. They either are, or they aren't, and their personal lives are entirely none of the fans' business. Fans have no right to any information which is not freely given either by the person themselves or by their consent.
> 
> Also note for those of you who subscribed, I've just changed the title and description of the story, nothing else. Let's call it a little rebranding because I'm taking the story in a slightly different direction.
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to write them fucking in later chapters.

Ian would never feel bad about falling asleep in Max’s trashed house. He wouldn’t be able to count on both hands the different bacterias growing on some perishable food left on the floor, the chemicals that were slowly creeping towards each other that would probably create mustard gas, the smoldering cigarette perched precariously close to some synthetic, vomit and alcohol soaked lace, the red stains setting comfortably on any surface they’d touched. Ian was comfy in his guest bed, snuggling with his guest pillow, drifting somewhere between good thoughts and good dreams. 

His bitch ass wasn’t getting up for anything. He wasn’t getting up ‘til that shit was cleaned without him. He’d maybe get up if the lace caught on fire, but only to fall asleep a good distance away, outside in the grass. He’d probably die of fire ants, which would be a fucking sweet way to go.

Ian was more asleep than awake when there was a knock at his bedroom door. The noise registered in his mind, but he was too far down the path of sacked to properly respond. He started going back to sleep when the knock came again.

“Fucking what?” Ian said, rolling over and looking at the clock. It was three in the morning.

Someone opened the door. Ian squinted at him. The light from the hallway backlit him, casting his face in shadow. Outlines of the scarce bedroom furniture came into view. 

“I can’t fucking sleep on the couch. It’s fucking facing all the nasty shit in the kitchen,” George said, his pillow and blanket in his arms. “Can I crash on the floor in here?”

“You said that shit wasn’t gonna bother you,” Ian mumbled, eyes closed.

“Okay, but-” George adjusted the pillow in his arm. “It does, and the couch isn’t as comfy as it was when I first started laying on it, so it’s not even worth it… Is this gonna be a problem?”

“What do I look like to you, a faggot?” Ian murmured, curling back up on the bed. George hesitated. “Are you fucking serious? Get in here and close the door.”

George closed the door and the room went dark again. Ian heard George awkwardly shuffle over to the foot of the bed, the only place on the wood floor with an area rug. George dropped his pillow on the floor and plopped down with a sigh. The room fell noticeably quiet. 

Ian pulled the blanket over his shoulder, nestling into the sheets. George shifted, the floor creaking under his movements. George cleared his throat. Ian twisted in bed, switching from laying on his right side to his left. Ian almost fell back to sleep. 

“I think,” George suddenly said, pulling Ian back from the edge of sleep, “There’s enough room on that bed for a couple of good friends.”

“I’m not your friend, George.” Ian replied assuredly.

“Well, I’m  _ your _ friend.”

“You’re not getting on this bed,” Ian said, too tired to play this game.

George got up from the floor and shuffled to the side of the bed. Ian ignored him. George started pushing on Ian’s side.

“Fucking move over,” George said.

“What? No. This is a twin bed, George. There’s no way-” George was successfully pushing Ian towards the edge of the bed. Ian grabbed at the sheets, sprawling out his gangly limbs on the bed and putting all his weight against George’s hands. “Fucking STOP.”

When George didn’t stop, Ian started pedal-kicking in George’s general direction like a 4 year-old throwing a tantrum. George loudly cussed, grabbing Ian’s legs.

“STOP,” Ian said again, yanking at George’s grip on his ankle. “GO to SLEEP somewhere ELSE.”

George tried to lie down on the edge of the bed and started pushing backwards with his back to Ian.

“HOLY SHIT,” Ian yelled, shoving against George’s back with his legs, but Ian’s skinny ass wasn’t making much work against George’s blind determination. George laughed, positioning himself back onto the bed despite Ian’s efforts and wrapping his blanket around himself.

“Good-night, bitch.” George was still inching his way backwards. Ian was teetering off the edge of the bed.

“ _ Hey, cunts! _ ” Max’s voice could be faintly heard all the way from his bedroom. “ _ Maybe shut the fuck up! Thank you! _ ”

George and Ian were both lying mostly on the bed, George’s back to Ian. 

Ian pinched the back of George’s arm, hard. George grabbed Ian’s hand, attempting to loosen his hold.

“Stop, we have to be quiet,” George said in a low voice. Ian continued to pinch George’s arm. George let go of Ian’s hand, turned to face Ian, and tweaked Ian’s nipple through his shirt hard enough Ian was sure it was going to bruise. George was now laying on top of Ian’s arm, the hand of which was still pinching George’s skin. Ian used the hand not pinned under George’s body to grab the hand with a death grip on his nipple. 

“Fucking  _ ow, _ ” Ian tried to keep his voice down. “Let go.”

George flexed his fingers and Ian made an involuntary noise. Ian let go of George’s arm, emasculated. George released Ian’s nipple. The red light of the alarm clock reflected in George’s eyes, making him look weirdly menacing as Ian yanked his arm out from underneath him.

“ _ Jesus _ ,” Ian complained. “You practice that move? Because A plus form, Joji, congratulations.”

“I actually do practice that, now that I think about it,” George admitted. “On myself.”

“Eugh, fuck you for making me think about that right now.” Ian whispered. George laughed low as he settled into the bed. 

“Are you comfortable, buddy?” George teased, tucking his arm under his pillow.

“I’m comfortable,” Ian said distractedly and then wished he hadn’t. Ian didn’t like George’s eye contact, his face too close on the small bed. It was threatening. George’s eyebrows raised slightly.

“I’m not,” George murmured. “My ass is straight hanging off the side of the bed.”

“Well, I think maybe the bed isn’t big enough, George.”

“I said it was big enough for two good friends.” 

George put his arm into the air and held it there. Ian didn’t know what to make of that gesture.

“What?” Ian asked, confused.

“We gotta spoon.”

“Uhm, fucking no we don’t?”

“It’ll be more space conscientious if we’re friendly.” George said, flicking his lifted fingers in a comical come-hither motion.

“I don’t spoon with friends on principle.”

“So we’re friends?” George asked. Ian contemplated just letting George have the bed. The couch couldn’t be any more uncomfortable than spooning with George and the mess in the kitchen wouldn’t bother Ian like it bothered him. 

Ian obviously couldn’t do that, though. If he left the bed, George won. It was all about keeping face.

“If you think you’re gonna be big spoon, you’re out of your fucking mind,” Ian finally said.

“I’m big spoon. Come on.”

“You’re smaller. It would make sense if you were the woman.”

“Ian, you sad, pathetic motherfucker,” George said, shaking his head. “You can’t assume the woman’s gonna be little spoon. 

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me.” Ian shifted uncomfortably. He was falling off the side of the bed.

“Are you saying you’ve never been little spoon?” George whispered like it was embarrassing.

“Yes,” Ian said.

“That’s tragic,” George sniffed. Ian rolled his eyes.

“If you like being little spoon so much, why can’t you just be little spoon?” Ian asked.

“Because I’ve been little spoon before. I don’t need to prove myself.” George said.

“I don’t need to prove myself either. I’m perfectly happy living my whole life without knowing what it’s like to be little spoon.”

“Can you just get your ass over here, my arm’s getting tired.” The arm George had thrust into the air was sagging under its weight. Ian groaned.

“George, come on, please don’t make me spoon with you.”

“It’s too late. We gotta see this thing through to the end,” George said, then hesitated. “In all seriousness, I swear not to make it awkward. It’s honestly not a big deal. Just... fucking spoon with me.”

Ian quietly fell further off the bed as he deliberated.

“Please?” George added. Ian looked up and George was making the ugliest version of a smile he could muster, which was really saying something.

“Holy shit, you’re actually a fucking faggot,” Ian said. “Don’t put your arm around me, I swear to God.”

Ian shifted positions so his back was to George. He shuddered, pulling his blanket up over his shoulder, as he closed proximity to George. George curled his arms in front of him, his hands tucked between his chest and Ian’s back, the tops of his thighs touching the back of Ian’s pants. George’s forehead momentarily touched the nape of Ian’s neck, but he quickly backed off.

“Sorry,” George said.

Ian didn’t know how to respond to that. He took a deep breath and focussed on falling back to sleep.

He only had to survive one night.


	2. Alanis Morrisette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All according to plan... lmao it's pretty short.

 

Max wouldn’t realize until the next day that the entire recording of the Chatroulette session would be unusable. It wasn’t original content and  _ definitely _ wouldn’t pass YouTube guidelines unless he put a metric fuck tonne of work into censoring erect dicks. 

Ian and George were sitting on the floor in front of the laptop on the coffee table. George’s legs were crossed indian style under the table (the table a forest of empty beer bottles), his arms crossed on the edge of the table and his cheek rested on his arm. Ian was in control of the mouse, his legs bent under the table. Chad and Max were lying on the couch behind them, their knees bent over the arms of the couch, feet hanging off the sides, Chad looking at the screen while Max stared at the ceiling. 

They’d cleaned Max’s house that morning, a quiet affair. Max and Chad had tackled the kitchen, while George and Ian had taken to the yard. Max had watched them crossing in front of the glass doors, rustling trash bags in pajamas and untied shoes, avoiding the glass which would always be embedded in the dirt of Max’s back yard. Hidden in the grass: cigarette butts, broken plastic cups. Too many empty liquor bottles.

After everything was semi-clean, the rest of the day had passed with everyone in separate rooms, on separate laptops, until Chad had smashed in through the front door with packs of beer in hand.

It was late. Max yawned and contemplated fucking off to his room, but, no, they were (not as) drunk and screwing around on the Internet.

“Ian, George- Frank- Fuck-” Chad drawled, listlessly waving an empty bottle of Corona over the side of the couch. “We should write something on our asses and-”

“Dude, you gotta stop. Gotta stop fucking up the name thing.” George said, trying and failing to keep his voice deep and gravelly. He just sounded normal. “I gotta keep in character.”

“And then click next. We could write dick-butt on our asses.”

“Why the fuck would we…? No.” Ian said, pressing next, probably getting another webcam shot of some Jack’s dick. He pressed next again, the click of the mouse audible from where Max was lying. “That’s the tired-est shit I’ve heard today.”

“We gotta up the wow factor somehow,” Chad said, dropping his bottle onto the ground behind the couch. It shattered.

“Hey, fag, the only people on at this time of night are horny guys,” Max said to the ceiling. “They’d just get off to it.”

“That’s shit,” Chad mumbled.

“Wouldn’t that up the wow factor though?” Ian asked, laughing.

“I don’t think we’ve seen anything but Mexican penises since we started doing this, like… an hour ago?” George mumbled. He tipped sideways as he tried to raise himself from the table to look out the dark window. He put his hand on his forehead. “Why… why did we start doing this?” 

Max kept quiet. No one answered for a beat.

“YouTube revenue,” Ian muttered. “Fucking YouTube revenue.”

“I meant the Omegle shit,” George said. “For the love of God.”

“We’re on Chatroullete, asshole.” Ian said matter-of-factly, clicked the mouse, probably seeing yet another man jerking it under the covers.

“What’s the difference?” George asked quietly.

“Man, I don’t know.” Ian sighed. Ian clicked next again. It fell quiet, except the steady sound of Ian clicking next. Click, click, click. This, mixed with the rumble of air conditioning and the ringing in Max’s ears. The house felt its usual “too big,” a void spanning over their heads, made a little less adult by shattered beer bottles and crushed cigarettes. Max had a laundry list of home improvement projects that would likely never be completed, much to the chagrin of his land lord. A little handy would probably smooth that over.

“Oh, hey.”

Max jolted, slowly turned his head to look at the screen. Chad seemed to have dozed off, lying on his stomach on the couch. It didn’t look comfortable.

On the laptop, a woman was holding up a sign which read, “Will show tits if you humiliate yourself.”

“Ain’t that just our little specialty. Can you hear us?” Ian asked the woman. George laughed. She didn’t respond. George pushed Ian aside with his shoulder and typed out the question on the keyboard. After a pause, George typed again. Max couldn’t read what he typed or what she responded with. George made a disapproving noise.

“Tits are a dime a dozen,” George said in a low voice.

“That’s true,” Ian conceded. 

George typed something else. She apparently responded. Max tried as hard as he could to read what was being said, but he was having a hard time focussing on the words. He felt sluggish; everything took too much effort to do.

“How do we know she’ll hold up her end of the deal?” Ian asked, trying to sound serious for comical effect. “What are we, a couple of 13-year-olds?”

“It’s fucked up,” George said, hesitantly. George turned to look at the couch. Max closed his eyes. “I think Max and Chad are asleep.”

“Hey!” Ian reached back and shook Chad. Chad mumbled something incoherent and went back to sleep. Ian shook him again.

“Fucking shake me again, I’ll rip your fucking arm off, cunt,” Chad slurred, curling into the cushion. 

“Fuck you, too, you fat cunt,” Ian said, but there was no passion in it. Max stayed still, eyes closed. He was exhausted. His thoughts were drifting, falling out of reach.

“Dude, she hasn’t pressed next yet,” George said. “She’s still waiting.”

There was a lull of silence. Someone typed something.

“This bitch really thinks we’ll do it,” Ian said softly.

“We shouldn’t,” George responded.

“I mean… yeah,” Ian said.

There was another lull of silence. Max dozed.

“Ian, stop,” George whispered sternly. Max blinked awake, his head already turned in Ian and George’s direction. George was leaned back on the floor, his elbow touching the wood paneling. Ian’s back was to Max, but he was hovering slightly over George, his hands pulling away from the front of George’s jeans, fingers curled like he’d just touched a hot stove. George’s fly was undone, which George worked to correct as his eyes fell on Max, who was obviously watching. George ran a hand over his lips. Ian lamely checked the laptop.

“Is she gone?” George asked, keeping eye contact with Max. Max remained silent.

“Yeah, she’s gone.” Ian said.

“We got jipped,” George said and furrowed his eyebrows at Max, questioning, then broke eye contact with him and relaxed his face when Ian looked over. “I, uh, think that’s enough Omegle. For tonight.”

“Chatroulette,” Ian corrected, closing the window and shutting the laptop. He cleared his throat. It seemed like he still hadn’t noticed Max was awake.

Max made a show of rolling over on the couch, yawning, stretching, and getting up, sliding over the arm of the chair gracelessly to his feet. Ian leaped up with him, distancing himself somewhat from George and fidgeting his hands. George stiltedly followed suit, standing up and taking a weary step away from Ian. He scrubbed his face with one hand.

“I’m going to bed,” Max announced. “It looks like fat cunt here has the couch, so someone else gets the bathtub tonight.”

Ian looked over at George, but George wasn’t looking back. Max nodded.

“Right, okay, I’ll leave ya’ to figure it out,” Max said, slapping George on the shoulder and walking towards his bedroom, flicking off lights as he went. The laptop continued to record.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like, I'm in college and while I was writing this chapter, I was also writing about women's pornography (slash fan fiction, coincidentally) for my college writing and research class lmao. It's relevant as shit. If y'all want to read it, I used google docs to create a web page for it. If any of you fuckers plagiarize me and use this shit for ur own college stuff, I'll fucking cut u. 
> 
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xPElusiwRRvucpx3gdEQSgOpSJj-2w05kTraAyHPatw/pub
> 
> It's also got my full name on it so???


	3. Jefferson Airplane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’re gonna start getting canon fucking divergent with this shit, all right? Like there’s nothing I can use as a reference from here on out, so I’m basically flying by the ass of my pants. I’m kinda confused tbh with, like, where the fuck George and Ian live ?? George lives in NYC (Brooklyn?), right? and then Ian lives in… California? I think it’s California but maybe not??? With the release of Content Deputy, and Max being in it, and it seeming to be in direct response to the responses to Content Cop; Is Max and Ian still, like, hanging at one or the other’s house?? Literally know nothing about these pieces of shit.
> 
> So. To make the story make some kind of sense, I’m picking one of many ideas, warping them to suit my needs, and going with that. Fuck reality.

 

“Listen, faggot, I know you’re cheating somehow,” Ian said, throwing down his cards on the table. Crumpled dollars scuttled away from the force of the impact.

“No, you just have the worst poker face I’ve ever seen.” Max flicked the ashes of his cigarette in an empty can of beer. 

“What’s my tell?” Ian asked, and Max looked over at Chad, who shrugged.

“You know what? Let’s play another round and you just pay really close attention to what you do,” Max said, picking up the cards and shuffling them.

“No, no, no, see, I’ve already lost, like, 30 bucks. I’m not  _ playing _ the next round, because you’re  _ obviously _ cheating.”

“Aw, come on, poker’s no fun with only two people,” Chad said, taking a swig of beer and grinning like an idiot.

It was 3 in the afternoon, and the light filtered hot and yellow onto the lawn. Chad, Max and Ian were seated around the collapsable table, on metal chairs, on the concrete slab which immediately abutted Max’s house. The cards were in shitty condition, just like all of the other of Max’s possessions.

“I’m just wondering how you’re cheating,” Ian said, looking down at the facedown cards Max was dealing out. “And now that I think about it, I don’t think the dealer is supposed to play in poker.”

“Yeah, maybe at the casino, but we’re just fucking around,” Max said, words distorted around the cigarette clamped between his teeth, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. “Come on, Ian.”

“Come on,” Chad said, wiggling his eyebrows. Ian stared at both of them, alternating between the two, his hands on the table. Chad winked.

“No, Chad just ruined it for you. I’m definitely out,” Ian flicked his newly-dealt cards away and got up. His cell phone rang in his pocket.

“Ian, come back! We’ll stop cheating, I promise!” Chad called after Ian’s retreating back. Ian opened the sliding door, walked through and shut it behind him.

Ian pulled his phone out of his pocket. The screen displayed an image of a bow-legged bird, caller ID read “Filthy,” the contact put in by George when they first met. Ian answered.

“Hello?” Ian said, walking into the kitchen.

“Hey, ‘suh, bruh” George’s voice came through shaky. It sounded like he was outside.

“Uh, nothing much. What’s up with you?” Ian asked, confused. He leaned his back against the counter.

“I have a crazy story, uh…. Listen.” There was a rustling over the phone. “I’m- I’ve got this… a drug dealer, you know? In my bed.”

“You have a drug dealer in your bed?”

“Which wouldn’t be a big deal.” George sighed. “I mean, it’s usually not a big deal.”

“Okay. So… what’s the story?” Ian turned to lean on his elbows on the counter, covering his eyes with his hand. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m on the roof of my apartment building. Just… chilling.” Ian could imagine it. New York City was a full 12 hours behind Australia, making it 3 in the morning where George was. The proverbial city skyline would still be glowing from hundreds of dotted lights extending upwards on solid spires.

“What happened?” Ian asked.

“It… it’s stupid, actually… Now that I think about it.” There was a long pause.

“Is she still there? In your bed?” Ian asked. He could still hear Chad and Max outside probably destroying the cards even more than they already were. He decided to move to the guest room. 

George hummed indecision, stuttered. He huffed a breath.

“Yeah. She is,” he finally said. “She’s skuzzy, dude. Like, skuzzier than usual.”

“How did she get in your bed?”

“I invited h- her over.” He laughed again. Ian felt it was a little forced. “I was in a pretty weird part of town.”

“That’s saying something,” Ian said, sitting down on his bed. “You guys smashed?”

“Uh, yeah. We smashed.”

“You should probably get yourself checked.”

“I used a condom. I’m not that high,” George said, sounding genuinely offended. Ian cleared his throat. “I definitely want her to leave though.”

“Then tell her to leave,” Ian prompted, starting to feel a specific kind of anxiety.

“Yeah…” George said back. The pause was long.

“George, why did you call me?” Ian asked. There was another long pause. Ian thought George hung up.

“We’re not really friends, are we?” George finally asked in a small voice. “I mean, we don’t know each other very much… We could be strangers.”

“I don’t know if I’d say strangers. I’ve thrown up on you before,” Ian joked.

“So did the drug dealer,” George muttered. Ian scrubbed his face, anxiety rising.

“Is she… okay? You don’t have a dead drug dealer in your bed, right?” Ian asked, praying to whatever god who’d listen he wasn’t about to be involved in drug related homicide.

“The drug dealer’s fine. Just sleeping it off,” George dismissed.

“Maybe you should check on her.”

“There’s this AA thing, HALT,” George said, changing the subject. Ian let it happen. “Have you ever heard of HALT?”

“No.”

“It stands for hungry, angry, lonely, or tired,” George said. “If you’re hungry, angry, lonely, or tired, you’re more likely to relapse.”

George was a number of years younger than Ian. It usually didn’t seem like much, but it did now. Ian struggled to think of what to say to that. He had absolutely no wisdom to give, and it made him feel younger and more naive.

“Anyway, sorry, uhm,” George continued. “This isn’t about relapse. This is about the, uh, gutter slut in my bed.”

“I don’t think I understand the problem,” Ian said. “You fucked her; you used a condom. Just tell her to leave and you’re off the hook. What’s this gotta do with halt?”

“I don’t want to fuck drug dealers. God, I just-” George huffed a breath. ”I shouldn’t have had sex with her. I don’t know. It’s out of control.”

“Look, there’s nothing you can do about that now, man. Like… you fucked her, but you’re okay. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Like, calm down,” Ian said, then, after a pause. “But what’s the story, seriously; I’m curious.”

“It’s kinda hard to explain without sounding gay,” George said. Pause. “Have you been to New York before?”

“Yeah. Like, once. When I was nine.”

“So you’ve been to the tourist traps,” George said like it was a statement.

“Basically,” Ian agreed.

“You should come visit some time. Get to know the real NYC,” George said in a low voice. “It’s a lot different than California.”

“Yeah? How?” Ian laid back on the bed.

“It’s… filthier.” George chuckled at his own joke.

“Is it filthier than Japan?”

“Yes, Ian. All of Japan. The entirety of filthy Japan, where I’m from. New York’s filthier.”

“Yikes. Didn’t mean to offend you, faggot.”

“Fuck you,” George said, laughing. An easy laugh. Ian grinned.

“When’s a good time for me to visit?” Ian asked.

“Oh shit, that’s a good question… uhm… Shit, I can’t think.”

“-All right-” Ian said. 

“We can figure it out when I’m not actively developing a life-ending hangover… Didn’t think you’d actually accept the offer.”

“Oh,” Ian said.

“Thank you, though,” George said. Ian sat up in his bed.

“For what?”

“That’s another good question.” A pause. “I gotta go.”

George hung up before Ian could respond.

 

-

 

Ian and Max pulled up to the drop-off zone of the airport, the same place they’d dropped George off a week back. Max put it in park. Ian’s luggage was stacked in the back seat. Ian unbuckled. Max put his hand on Ian’s shoulder, signaling him to stay.

“You can’t park in front of the terminal,” Ian said. “I gotta go.”

“We need to talk about when you fucks are coming back,” Max said.

“Yeah, we can figure that out when I don’t have a flight to catch.”

“Yeah, I should’ve... you and me still need to talk about it.” Max ran a hand through his tangled hair. “We should plan something quick.”

“We should think of some video ideas,” Ian said, confused. “We got some pretty good content going on. Good job, everyone. There really isn’t a rush.”

“Ian, it’s-” Max’s brow was pinched, as it had been the entire ride to the airport. Ian had ignored it then as he did now. “Nevermind. Nevermind. You’re going to miss your flight.”

Ian opened his door. The whirl of planes landing and taking off swept around him and off into the vast blue Australian sky. He opened the back door, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder, shrugging on his backpack, and pulling his rolling luggage out. The wheels hit the pavement with a thud. Max got out, walked around the back of the car, and stood back as Ian got himself situated. 

Max grabbed Ian by the shoulders, and pulled him into a hug, slapping his back. Ian hugged him back. They exchanged good-byes before Max ran back to the driver’s seat, ripping the door open and plopping himself down behind the wheel. Security had started walking towards them, sweating at the edge of the sidewalk. Max pulled away with screeching wheels.

Ian watched him speed off, adjusted his various straps, then turned and walked into the terminal.

 

-

 

It was a 22 hour flight from Perth to San Francisco. Ian was blessed with a window seat next to a business man who couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge him. 

He was never good at arranging what he was going to do on long flights. He was left with his thoughts, a laptop full of responsibilities, and the movies programmed into the screen on the back of the seat in front of him. There wasn’t any pre-programmed porn, which was a crying shame. Of course, if there was porn and he watched it, the business man next to him would be very able to see it. He couldn’t decide if that would be funny or embarrassing. He liked to think it would be funny. This was, however, completely reliant on the business man reacting to it in some dramatic fashion. If the business man didn’t acknowledge it, then it would be so shameful and cringe-worthy, Ian would have to spend the rest of the flight in perpetual anguish.

Actually, he was kind of glad there wasn’t any porn on the list. It would’ve been too tempting; the risk too high, the pay-off too low, and the consequences too hefty. Ian was used to playing a calculated game, but it was only fun when the camera was rolling. It was only fun when someone was watching.

He watched two rom-coms starring Hugh Grant before he decided to open his laptop. Saved to the hard-drive was hours upon hours of filming. Most of it was probably completely useless. They had a tendency to leave the cameras rolling for too long, mostly because they were too drunk to understand when the joke stopped being funny.

The icons for the files were ridiculous, reminded Ian that it was some pretty nasty content. He didn’t even know what was on most of them. Ian really didn’t want the business man to look over and see an out of context video of uncensored vomiting and probable nudity, more for the business man’s sake than his.

He was scrolling fast, quickly scanning the pictures.

He noticed a glaring lack of the Chatroulette film. He shivered. That was probably for the best. He assumed George deleted it.

Quite a few icons didn’t look like at all like any film they shot. Not any film he was aware of, anyway. There was so much spillover in terms of content sharing, over half of this shit wouldn’t even be used by anyone.

Ian opened one at random against his better judgment.

The audio was intermittent with static, but the shot was from the dining table, a hand leaving the front of the camera. Max leaned over like he was checking something on the laptop next to the camera. He then walked to the stove, behind the island, and began cooking something. This went on for a few minutes. Ian internally groaned. He almost turned it off.

George walked into frame in pajamas. There was another long period where George sat on a barstool at the island, his back to the camera, while Max finished cooking. Max dumped the contents of the pan (scrambled eggs?) onto a plate and turned to talk to George.

The audio was definitely not working. Ian turned it up as high as it would go, but all he could hear were faint, indecipherable murmurings. He could see Max’s lips but not George’s.

George picked up a piece of egg with his index finger and thumb as Max’s lips moved. George listened, nodding as he stole more of Max’s food. Max stopped talking. George moved like he was talking, waving his hand dismissively. Max grabbed the plate and tossed it carelessly into the sink. There had been food still on it. George didn’t react.

Max rubbed his temples with one hand, while the other rested on the counter. George continued to shrug, but it seemed less dismissive and more defensive now. Max removed his hand from his face and tapped an agitated finger on the counter, his lips moving. George went still. They looked at each other for a moment.

Max ran a hand over his face then walked around the island to the table where the camera lay. He leaned over and pressed something on the laptop and the video cut out.

Ian deleted the video. He was kind of embarrassed to have watched it, but more embarrassed that it existed in the first place. This was the type of soap opera bullshit he’d expect to see on Telemundo.

Ian closed the laptop, cleared his throat, and looked out the plane window. The sun was setting fast, orange glinting off the sparse clouds which slowly drifted by. The ocean below was dark, with only strings of light glinting off smooth waves. Turns out the Pacific ocean was pretty fucking big. Like at least a few miles wide, a couple miles deep. Ian felt small in comparison to it.There were probably 16 or so more hours before they landed in the US.

Ian turned to the business man. The business man was watching porn on his laptop. Ian nodded, and looked away before he was caught looking. He sighed, closed his eyes.

 


	4. Plain White T's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right. So. I have a confession to make. I had no idea what I was going to do with this story when I posted it and I still don’t know how it’s going to end, but I know what I want to do next. That being said, I’ve… altered the characters from the beginning somewhat. I don’t think it’s huge, but I’m taking characters who were originally going to be humorously fluff fucking and exploring them a little bit more than that. The timeline is so fucked at this point, just ignore it. But wherever this is going, I hope that you still enjoy it. Y’all in this nasty hell fandom who have been leaving comments and kudos are my freaking moms and I love you. We germinate in this bog together and become trashier people and that’s what I love to see. (There will still be smut, I promise you. It’s hopefully just going to be all the sweeter with the addition of some angst and feelings.)
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is kind of filler, but things are trending to speed up exponentially.

 

 

[Hey, were you sti-]

[Hey, did you still want to-]

[I was looking at my schedule and wanted to know-]

[New York sounds-]

Ian sat with his fingers floating over the screen of his phone, with the phrase, “New York sounds,” waiting to be finished. He sighed, erased that too, and tossed his phone onto his desk.

“Fuck.” Ian stared at the video editing program on the computer screen in front of him. The computer screen next to it had a few other windows open. The clock read 10:34 pm.

He would blame it on cabin fever. He’d been cooped up in his room for way too long, getting headaches from staring at his flickering computer screens, curling up on his bed and staring at the inactive group chat. He wasn’t going to text anything. He’d been a lurker in the first place, not talking unless specifically prompted. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this group chat had existed before he’d gotten to it, that he was an addition. 

When George had invited him to visit, he hadn’t mentioned Max or Chad. When George had invited him to visit… that conversation was unhinged. Ian avoided thinking about it too much. It made him extremely uncomfortable. It had been too personal. Part of the problem was he couldn’t find it in himself to joke about it. He felt like he’d talked George off the ledge, and he definitely didn’t like that. Then he’d been invited over to NYC and left to stew. He could assume that that was a wild invitation given by a George who wasn’t completely aware of what he was doing. He should assume that. 

He didn’t want to, though.

Annoyingly, the invitation was the only part of the conversation which, in his mind, redeemed the whole ordeal. Without it, George had just told him they weren’t friends and he regretted sleeping with a drug dealer. 

George should’ve called Max.

Ian picked his phone back up and opened a new conversation. He’d never texted Chad outside of the group chat.

[Do you know what’s going on?] Ian texted, knowing it was vague and hoping Chad would just assume something and answer that. He turned his ringer up and put the phone down. The phone dinged almost immediately.

[Was hoping u could enlighten me] Chad texted back faster than Ian had expected.

[What do you mean?]

[Its been silent as SHIT. Should I try to light up the Group chat?]

[Sure.] 

Ian got a notification that Chad had sent a message in the group chat. 

Chad had literally just sent a meme.

[Let’s see how they respond to that.] Chad texted to Ian. Honestly, Ian was touched. It suddenly felt like he and Chad were of the same understanding. Like Chad was just as in the dark as he was. Ian got a notification that Max had answered the chat.

{Chad you fuck.} Max wrote.

{Ha Ha Ha faggot that was u in Middle school.} Chad texted.

{Got em.} Max texted back. Ian got a notification that Chad had sent him something.

[Nvm it was just Light on Memes.] Chad wrote.

Ian texted back the “okay” hand signal emoji. That warm, fuzzy feeling he momentarily had for Chad was completely gone and Chad was an idiot again. Thank fucking God because Ian couldn’t imagine himself ever taking Chad seriously anyway. 

{What’ve u guys been doing?} Chad helpfully texted in the group chat. 

{Daydreaming about that man-bun} Max texted.

{She’s waiting for u bitch.} Chad responded.

{You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.}

{The man bun needs to hear u screaming its name.}

{You took it too far you gay cunt.}

{U say that now but thats not what ur gonna be saying tonight.}

{Jesus Christ you’re absolutely fucking right.}

Ian watched the grey bubbles pop up on his screen. He checked the read receipts. George was reading them, too. Ian felt a cold pit in his stomach. His machinations had technically worked, but now it felt thinly veiled and stupid.

Ian shuffled over to his bed, took his glasses off, stripped off his shirt, and dropped onto the covers on his back with his phone in his hand. He glared at his ceiling, at the ceiling light with the broken light bulb he still needed to replace. The only light in the room was coming from his bedside table lamp. His perpetual headache was acting up. He closed his eyes and started doing time zone math again. California was 2- no, 3 hours behind New York and New York was 12 hours behind Perth. If it was 10:30ish at night where Ian was, then it was 1:30ish in the morning where George was, and it was 1:30ish in the afternoon where Chad and Max were.

Ian reopened his empty, private conversation with George.

George was already typing in it, the grey bubble with cycling dots in the corner. Ian waited. He was still getting notifications from the group chat, alerting him in drop-down menus that it was Chad and Max probably still bickering. Ian stayed on the conversation screen with George. 

The grey bubble went away. No text.

George didn’t know Ian had saw him pussy out of texting.

[Shouldn’t you be asleep?] Ian texted George. The dotted grey bubble popped back up, went away, then popped back up again.

[What are you, my mom?] was finally the response.

[Lame ass joke.] Ian texted. George didn’t text back. The group chat had been a constant stream of Chad and Max. Ian opened it back up to find it had devolved into sending disgusting pictures of mangled dicks to each other, per the norm of the group chat. It’d become too easy to pretend it wasn’t real gore. Ian went back to George’s chat, balanced the phone on his forehead, closed his eyes.

His phone vibrated and he picked it up just far enough to read that George had put something in the group chat.

{Why did I think I wasn’t going to see an exploded penis today}

Chad responded with a few crying laughter emojis.

{Hey, since we’re all here, we should plan another one of our Perth orgies.} Max texted. The read receipt added everyone’s name. Ian waited, as did, it seemed, everyone else.

{I’ve still got plenty of video to edit from last time.} George finally texted back, delayed. There was another lull.

{But if our schedules work, then we should jump on the opportunity.} Max responded.

{My schedule won’t work.} George texted.

{Your schedule won’t work forever?}

{For the foreseeable future.} Another pause.

As Ian waited for someone else to say something, he got an alert that George had sent him a text in their private chat.

[Are you down for coming to NYC in two weeks?] Ian put the phone on his forehead again, pressed it down hard with his hand, fighting the headache that was being worsened by the incomprehensible bullshit being perpetrated by his friends group.

[Dude, I thought you said you were busy?] Ian got the strength to text back.

[I am~ busy. The roommates are all going on vacation and I have to apartment sit. Thought it’d be a good time for you to come chill though.] It made enough sense that Ian didn’t feel comfortable asking any further. He’d just have to decide if he wanted to go to New York or not. 

[How long would I be there?]

[Like a week.] George sent a consecutive text: [If you want.]

Ian hesitated, staring at the screen until his arm gave out. The group chat had remained silent. Ian wondered if Max and Chad were talking privately. He felt his ears burning. It was a strange feeling.

[Yeah, I think my schedule’s pretty clear.] Ian texted, then tried at nonchalant when he added: [What about Perth?]

[I’m busy.] George’s quick response.

Ian felt the conversation was still unresolved, but he was also afraid his decisions (and perceptions?) were being thrown off balance somehow. He threw his phone towards the end of the bed and scrubbed at his eyes. He was thinking into this too hard. Whatever was happening (that he wasn’t supposed to know about) wasn’t his problem or responsibility. Ian compartmentalized his apprehension, promised himself this wasn’t going to be a big deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The meme Chad sent in the group chat: https://pics.onsizzle.com/-aMzw0h9av-Instagram.png


	5. Cobra Starship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the deal: the update is a little late, but it includes two chapters and doubles the size of the fic. I wanted this next part to be posted all at once, so I finished it before posting any of it. It's two chapters because it's fucking big. This is this week's update as well. We'll be back on schedule next week, hopefully.
> 
> I'm really fucking excited to be writing this for you all. Fucking enjoy it from Hell, where we all live.

 

Ian was standing in front of a very vaguely familiar door at 3 in the afternoon. He adjusted the straps of his luggage, most of which was identical to the shit he’d brought to Perth. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

It’d been a long trip from San Francisco to New York. Something about it had been especially stressful. He didn’t realize how much he relied on knowing what he was going to do next to belay nervousness until he was sitting in his cramped economy class plane seat and realizing he had no idea what he was going to be doing while in Brooklyn. Go to clubs was all George had given him. (“What clubs?” “If I tell you, you’ll just Google them, and that’s no fun.”) Ian couldn’t focus on an upcoming event, so was stuck daydreaming about random shit. Random shit included the down-time he’d definitely not thought about, being in an apartment with just George. It was nerve-wracking not knowing if this was going to be awkward or not. He’d never been alone with George for long periods without some outside force calling for it. And now he’d just signed on for a week doing it, for better or for worse.

Ian had had to take a cab from JFK to a pretty shady block in Brooklyn. He’d been given instruction on how to get to the 7th floor: take the stairs to the third floor and then take the elevator the rest of the way up. DO NOT take the stairs all the way up and DO NOT take the elevator from the first floor. So he’d hoisted his luggage up three flights of stairs and awkwardly got on the elevator with a mother and her small child. They’d stood in silence while the levels slowly slid by. The woman had looked pissed, but Ian was sure it wasn’t at him. She’d tapped her toe and glared at the door.

Once he’d got off the elevator, he’d criss-crossed the hall like a moron until he’d happened upon the room number he was looking for. Then stood there like an idiot.

Ian drowsily knocked on the door. There was a long moment of silence where nothing changed. He heard shuffling and an unfamiliar voice. Ian panicked, pulling out his phone to check that he had the right apartment number.

The door opened, and George emerged, putting his hand up, signaling Ian stay quiet, his other hand holding his cell phone to his ear. George propped open the door the rest of the way with his hip and stood aside, letting Ian into his apartment as he spoke Japanese into the phone. Ian stumbled in, his feet getting caught in the tied handles of full plastic grocery bags. 

Ian hadn’t really heard George speak conversational Japanese. It was odd. Ian only knew about two phrases in Japanese: Domo arigato, Mr. Roboto and Sayonara, suckers. If prompted, he could probably say some other weaboo shit, but it all felt intensely idiotic in comparison to the actual language George was fluently speaking. Ian couldn’t really tell what kind of conversation it was, only that it was requiring a lot of back and forth. Ian stood in the space between the kitchen and what appeared to be a living room of sorts, his luggage hanging off of him, becoming pretty uncomfortable. George put his hand over the receiver, rolling his eyes.

“Hold on,” George said in a low voice. Ian lifted his brows in recognition. Despite the language boundary, Ian got the idea that the next thing George said into the phone was curt. A pause. George sighed, said something else. Waited. Said one more thing, then hung up. 

“Who was that?” Ian asked.

“My mom,” George said. Ian nodded. “Uhm, I was thinking you could either sleep on the couch, crash in one of the good ol’ roommates’ rooms, or, you know-”

“Your roommates are okay with me sleeping in one of their rooms?”

“Don’t know, didn’t ask.” George scratched his whiskers. “It’s up to you.”

“Which roommate is the least likely to give a fuck?”

“Well,” George thought. “I… could tell you, but I don’t know if you want to sleep in his room. It’s pretty gross.”

“So… the one who’s the second least to give a fuck?”

“Follow.” George scooted past Ian, and walked down the hall. Ian followed. George pushed open one of the white doors to a mostly clean room. “He probably won’t care.”

Ian walked into the room and dropped his luggage on the floor, grateful to have the pressure off his shoulders. George stayed at the doorway.

“The bathroom’s down the hall. Uhm, food in the fridge. All that bullshit. There’s really not much to do right now.” George checked the time on his phone. “Yeah, I mean. I just woke up, like, thirty minutes ago, which is a little early for me.”

“Dude, I’m literally about to fall asleep, to be completely honest,” Ian said, sagging onto the bed.

“That’s fucking baller,” George said. “I’ll leave you to it.”

George closed the door. 

Ian looked around the room, at the books and knick knacks and clothes and bottles of cologne that weren’t his, and laid back onto the cool navy bed spread.

 

-

-

-

 

“Hey, Ian,” George said, shaking Ian by the shoulder. Ian woke up slowly, blinking. “What do you want for dinner?”

“What?”

“What do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t fucking-” Ian grabbed his glasses from the end table. “What time is it?”

“Like 9:30ish.” Ian looked up at George, then at the dark window, then back to George.

“At night?” He asked.

“Yeah.”

“Wha- How? I gained, like, three hours. It’s-” Ian tried to do time zone math. “Fuck.”

“I don’t know, man, you conked out,” George said dismissively, walking back towards the door. “I was gonna order something, do you want any input?”

“Nah,” Ian sighed, scrubbing his face. 

“Cheese pizza it is then.” George promptly left into the hallway. Ian heaved himself off the bed, not really sure how or when he got all tangled up in the blankets. He stood unsteadily, ran a hand through his hair to discern how bad it looked through touch. It didn’t feel that bad. He tottered through the door, went towards the kitchen.

“Cheese pizza… like, with toppings?” Ian asked, plopping down at the small, cramped table.

“Cheese is the topping.” George put his phone to his ear.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian said.

George made a face. The pizza place picked up.

Ian yawned. He wanted to go back to sleep, truthfully. George seemed very awake, animatedly ordering the pizza as if it was mid-day. It made Ian feel like the sun should be shining outside, like he had a whole day in front of him.

“Do pizza places normally stay open this late?” Ian asked after George hung up the phone.

“No, and they don’t deliver to my building either,” George said. “You’re fucking retarded, asking some obvious shit like that.” George’s phone buzzed. He tapped the notification.

“Is that the pizza place?” Ian asked.

“It’s… friends,” George said, distractedly. He picked the phone up off the table and tapped at it.

“Oh, whoa, wait. You have friends, faggot?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” George said, snottily, still looking at the screen. “I have people who think they’re my friends. I just use them.”

“Oh, naturally.” Ian wet his lips. “What do they want?”

“To ride my dick,” George somewhat mumbled. 

“What, like, tonight?” Ian asked. George looked up at him a second, his phone cradled between his steepled fingers.

“What?”

“You mean, go out, right? Do something?” 

“I was thinking we could just chill at the apartment tonight.” George glanced down at his phone. Ian thought he would’ve been relieved to hear that, but he wasn’t. He shifted in his seat.

“What do they want to do?”

“Ah,” George hesitated.

“What do you usually do?”

George avoided Ian’s eyes, tapping something into his phone. Ian waited.

“The places they wanna go to tonight are, kinda… uh,” George made a face. “I don’t know if you’d have a good time.”

“You’re telling me I came all the way out here just to be told I’m too much of a pussy to go out?” Ian asked. “You think you have that kind of authority, George?”

“Uh, yes. I do.” George said. “My house, my rules.”

“I’ll start walking, George. I’ll start walking and I have no idea where I’m going.”

“Ian, you’ll be killed. Or worst, raped.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Ian said, standing from his chair and neatly tucking it back under the table. “This might be the last time you see me.”

“You’re forcing my hand, here,” George sighed, grinning, but his eyes were dark. Ian’s stomach dropped. He’d forgotten about their phone conversation, about the drug dealer that had been in his bed, about HALT. “We have to at least wait for the pizza.”

“Okay. Cool. Great.” Ian remained standing, tapped the top of the chair with his fingers. “I’m going to go take a shower.”

“Have fun, man.” George was looking down at his phone. Ian walked down the hall, his expression pinched. He closed the bathroom door behind him, guilty as Hell.

 

-

 

Ian and George were walking down the dark street outside of George’s apartment. George lead, with Ian shuffling close behind. The street lights were supplemented by window light and the sidewalks were actually fairly lit, though not as packed as Ian had thought every street in New York would be 24/7, like in the movies. And the lights would probably be out soon anyway, as more businesses closed.

The cheese pizza had looked thin and greasy in a way that had been really aesthetically unappetizing. Ian, obviously, had eaten worst. Oh God, so much worst. It would sometimes hit him the shit that he’d done for views, and he’d have to take a moment to recover from the existential depression it would inevitably send him into. The pizza didn’t exactly do that, but he got pretty damn close when he’d almost verbally said it didn’t look inviting.

George’s friends, who George hadn’t named, had told them to meet up with them “at the bar.” It was a couple blocks away from where they stood. 

It was sort of dreamlike, following the short George through the dim streets of Brooklyn. The atmosphere was tinted blue, threatened to get hazy around the edges. It smelled like trash, air pollution, and something vaguely edible.

The street joined onto a wider, busier street, with yellow lights reflecting off the dewey asphalt. People milled, going and coming, dully shambling under impressive architecture. Many seemed middle-age or older, and poor. Some, however, seemed young and spunky. Maybe a little too spunky.

They turned left and joined the crowds.

“Stay close,” George said, sounding considerably patronizing. Ian pressed close anyway.

“Do you wanna hold hands?” Ian asked sarcastically, hand weirdly hovering around George’s waist.

“Brooklyn’s not that liberal,” George said. “Not this time of night.”

An old man passed by walking the other way, expression wry, hands dug into his pockets. Ian was one step behind George.

“Do you usually walk around alone this time of night?” Ian asked, eyeing a man and woman, probably in their thirties, sitting on the step of a building they were passing, smoking cigarettes. They looked like bouncers, the way they eyed the crowd, but the steps seemed to lead into a normal enough looking apartment building.

“Yeah,” George said. “I’ve walked it drunk.”

Ian imagined George staggering down a less busy version of the road they were currently walking down. Using street signs and building walls for support. Throwing up in the alley. Running into the cigarette-smoking bouncers. It was bad.

He blindly followed George, keeping his head down. He didn’t want to see the people around him. He just wanted to get to the club, get this over with. Prove himself.

They took another turn down the street. Immediately, Ian noticed music. Low, and not what he expected. He looked up. They were walking right past a club that he would probably consider “artsy” or “full of liberal propaganda.” Indie music spilled out of the hole in the wall, the steps which went a few feet down into a basement-esque room. Climbing the stairs was a girl in a knitted beanie and converse shoes. She was holding a large sketchbook in one hand and smoking a joint with the other. She smiled at him as he caught her eye.

They walked past, towards a building with a neon sign out the front. The doors weren’t open like with the artsy club, and bouncers stood at the door. It was a place called Heaven, and the advertisements on the outside were erotic.

“Is this a strip club?” Ian asked.

“Yeah,” George said as they came up to the building. There were only a few people in line in front of them, waiting to be checked by the bouncers. “Strip club and bar.”

“What strip club isn’t a bar?”

“A bad one.” George said. Ian watched the couple in front of them - a man and a woman - get patted down.

 

-

 

The club was small. That was the first thing that was a lot different than the West coast. There were a lot more, ahem, ethnic people. Another thing that was different. The strippers weren’t all the same 110 pound, blonde-haired, thongs and pasties. Another thing. 

There was an island in the middle of the main room which had the proverbial poles and athletic girls. There was space on the floor between where the stage ended and a bar-esque counter began. Stationed at that bar were hookah pipes; vapor spilled from lips trying to impress half-naked women with money stuffing their bra. On the right of the island was the DJ, and a packed area that was probably supposed to be the dance floor. The way the bodies were pressed together, it was hard to tell which women in the crowd were patrons and which were strippers.

On the left was a traditional style bar, with drinks lining shelves behind a manned counter. The bar stools to that bar weren’t nearly as full as the ones around the naked women. 

The smaller venue made the loud music, flashing lights, and undulating female bodies a lot more overwhelming.

“They said they’d be at the bar,” George said over the thump of the music. Ian and George moved away from the entrance, weaving their way through the crowd. Ian was actually tempted to hold onto George in some way as the crowd continuously shifted around them. Ian liked a stripper as much as the next guy, but not when he was shoulder to shoulder with about three complete strangers at once. 

“Hey, Goomba!” George yelled over the music, pushing out of the crowd and into the bubble around the bar. Ian followed close.

A woman sat alone at the bar in a skimpy outfit, drinking something milky-looking from a glass. She turned, attempting to tuck her ratted hair behind her pierced ear.

“Where’s Pookie and Brock Lee?” George asked. Ian was confused. “Goomba” gestured in the vague direction of the stripper island. “Seriously?”

“What else are they going to do at a strip club?” Goomba asked. 

“Ugh. Okay, watch him. I’ll be right back,” George said.

“Take your time!” Goomba yelled at George’s retreating back. She turned her attention to Ian. “You’re Idubs?”

“And you’re… Goomba?”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug. Ian gave her a questioning look. “Being friends with George sometimes doesn’t make sense.”

“Did he ask you to go by Goomba?” Ian asked, sitting down at the bar stool next to Goomba.

“Yeah,” she said, took another drink of whatever was in her glass. “Did he ask you to go by Idubs?”

“Ah, no,” Ian said, then hesitated. “But I guess it’s fine.”

“So, how are you doing?” she asked amicably.

“I’m in New York,” Ian said. 

“That’s not a… mood, per se.”

“I don’t have a mood.” Goomba nodded. Ian waited for the bartender.

“What do you do?” She asked. Ian hesitated again. “I mean, besides YouTube.”

“Electrician’s apprentice.”

“Oh, that sounds important,” she said. Ian snorted.

“Not really. I spend most of my day sweeping until someone thinks of something for me to do. I’m basically a glorified janitor.”

“But you’re trying to become an electrician?” Goomba asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Ian watched the bartender flirting with one of the strippers, therefore neglecting his bartending duties. He shook his head internally. “So what do  _ you  _ do?”

“Well, by day I’m a fast-food worker,” she proudly said. “But that shit doesn’t pay the bills, so by night…” She gestured to the club around them. It took a second for Ian to catch on.

“You’re a stripper? Holy shit. Are you on the clock right now?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not on the clock. I’m giving you my company for free.” She crossed her legs. Her hair fell into her face. “I actually work at a different location. This is my off night.”

“Is that how you and George met?” Ian asked.

“Yeah.” Something in Goomba’s eyes unsettled Ian. “We’re not dating.”

“Okay,” Ian said, not sure where in the conversation that made sense.

The bartender had made his way over. Ian thought he’d order a rum and Coke.

“Four shots,” Goomba ordered before him, finishing her drink and casually pushing Ian’s shoulder. “He’s not even tipsy.”

“I-” Ian cleared his throat, making a bad decision. “I’ll also have a rum and Coke, also. And a shot.”

The bartender smirked, turned to make a drink. Ian looked into the crowd. Faces turning, lights highlighting profiles, ambiguity in the heat. George wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

 

-

 

“I’m not trying to defend the ‘make it rain’ fad, I’m just saying you should be grateful that the guy’s making it rain.” Ian was nursing his second rum and Coke. On top of two… three (??) shots.

“It’s annoying. I have to pick up all the money.”

“But I feel like you could make that work for you. Just, like, bend over sexily.”

“You can only bend over sexily so many times before you get light-headed,” Goomba said. “Plus, I’m usually drunk.”

“I didn’t think you were allowed to drink on the job.”

“I’m not, and I probably shouldn’t,” Goomba said, laughing. “It makes it easier to pretend these guys are attractive.”

“They’re paying good money, Goomba.”

“I know, good God. It doesn’t mean they’re suddenly hot.”

“No, I’m pretty sure money is the only reason to find someone attractive,” Ian said definitively. “For women, at least.”

“What kind of qualifier is that?”

“I mean, historically…” Ian didn’t know where he was going with this. His mind was pretty foggy. “Women have evolved to be attracted to wealth.”

“That doesn’t make any fucking sense,” Goomba laughed. “You’re actually an idiot.”

“It’s Darwinism.”

“No, it’s not,” she said. Ian was grinning, facing the crowd. He was watching a group of people who weren’t following the usual flow between the bars on the other side of the island, watched the nervous expressions through the shaven legs of the strippers. A voice was raising. Goomba followed Ian’s line of sight, looked where he was looking.

“What time is it?” Ian asked distractedly.

“I don’t know. Midnight?” She said.

People were scuttling away from whatever commotion was going on, some giggling nervously, some obviously thankful to escape onto the dancefloor. Goomba downed the rest of her drink.

“Looks like we’ll be leaving soon,” she said coolly.

“We need to find George,” Ian said. Goomba peered at Ian. She got up, putting money on the counter to cover her bill. Ian did the same.

She started walking towards the hubbub.

“Uh, I don’t think-” Ian started, following her through the crowd. She brushed her hand across someone’s shoulder, saying something to them as she passed. That person walked in a different direction.

There was a very muscled man, intimidating at the center of the circle of people. A stripper was standing behind him, looking equal parts bored, annoyed and embarrassed. Ian leaned, trying to see around the mountain of a man.

On the chair in front of him sat George, with a hookah hose in hand. George was very visibly wasted, his v-neck collar pushed farther over one shoulder than the other and his hair a mess. Ian had come up beside Goomba, who was calmly standing at the edge of the crowd.

“What do we do?” Ian asked.

“Nothing,” Goomba replied. “Fucking George does this too often. He’s gonna get himself banned again.”

Ian’s drunk legs carried him forward into the bubble. He shuffled around the edge of the crowd, trying to get to George without disturbing the irate man.

“You’re causing a scene, man. I know, for a fact, you don’t need to be doing this.” George was saying, laughing, taking a pull off the hookah.

“Fuck you. I’m sick of seeing you around here, disrespecting these girls.”

“I would never, in my life, disrespect a woman of the night. Ever.” George said sardonically. He tried to lean around the man and speak to the stripper. “Did I disrespect you?”

The stripper didn’t respond, just looked more embarrassed.

“She’s not a woman of the night, cunt.” The man was clenching his fists. Ian was a few feet away from George.

“Why’s it matter to you?” George asked. “You like that girl?”

The guy went redder, his jaw clenching.

“No, I don’t- It’s not about the girl-” he sputtered.

“Oh, so is this about me?” George asked, lowering his head and looking at the guy through his eyelashes. “Do  _ you  _ want a kiss?”

The guy gave a right hook to George’s cheek, unbalancing him off the bar stool. George stumbled, but caught himself, stayed on his feet, his hand covering the cheek that’d just got hit.

Ian jumped in, standing between them and holding up his hands.

“All right, hold on,” Ian said, staring into the nameless man’s surprised face. The man’s fists were still clenched. Ian was actually probably the same height as this guy, but half the weight. “What seems to be the problem?”

“He’s violating club rules,” the man announced, lowering his fists and trying to sound authoritative.

“What’d he do?” Ian asked.

“Well, he… he was kissing her,” he replied, obviously feeling silly saying it out loud.

“Dude.” Ian made a face. The man’s face was chagrin. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’ll fucking punch you, too, faggot.” The guy grumbled, “If you’re not out of this club in ten seconds.”

“Is that a threat?” Ian asked. The man stood his ground. Ian didn’t move. George grabbed his arm.

“We should go,” George murmured, blood on his fingers. Ian met his eyes. There was a cut on his cheekbone. Ian looked worried.

“What are you, fucking gay?” The guy asked, chuckling.

Ian turned and socked him in the jaw. Ian’s knuckle immediately hurt on impact, but the other guy went down on his knees. George tried to cover his laugh with his hand, grabbing Ian’s shoulder.

“Now we really gotta go,” George said, pulling Ian towards the exit. Ian followed his lead. 

They passed a bewildered Goomba on the way out. George patted her on the head as they went. 

“It was nice meeting you,” Ian said.

“Good luck,” she called after them as they stumble-sprinted past the bouncers. 

 

-

 

They started back to George’s apartment speed walking down the street, just trying to get as much distance between them and Heaven as they could get. George was leading, off-balanced, with Ian close behind. That didn’t last long as both their drunkenness caught up with them. It was soon obvious that George was considerably drunker than Ian, leaning on him to stay up and walk in a straight line. Ian wrapped an arm around his waist, George’s shirt hiking up as he used Ian more for support.

By the time they passed the artsy hole in the wall, they were both quiet. The music had stopped, and the sound of slam poetry could be heard coming from the open door. Ian couldn’t make out what was being said, but he was sure it was eye-opening and poignant. They entered the main road in silence.

There weren’t as many people as before, few enough that Ian and George could walk side by side, or, more accurately, hip to hip.

They were halfway down the street when George broke the silence.

“She kissed me first,” George said.

“I know.”

They continued quietly for a few steps.

“That guy was a jackass,” Ian said.

“Yeah… but I broke club rules.”

“She kissed you. Nothing you could’ve done about that.”

“I could’ve stopped her.” George slipped for a second, his feet tangling underneath him. He nearly pulled Ian’s drunk ass down. Ian adjusted his grip, finding his hand on the bare skin of George’s side.

“Not your job to stop her,” Ian said.

“Yeah,” George said. “My cheek’s still bleeding, dude.”

He said that as he rubbed his cheek against Ian’s shirt. Ian accepted his fate.

“Does it need stitches?” Ian asked.

“Naaahhh, I have butterfly bandages back at the apartment.” George’s head was still tucked against Ian’s shoulder.

“Hmm.” It felt a long way to the apartment.


	6. Son Lux

Ian got George’s door open with clumsy hands. It felt like the biggest achievement to open the door, the completion of the journey.

He was glad he was drunk, otherwise he’d have been mortified to have been seen limping down the street with an obviously injured man on his hip. He thought more people would be surprised to see the blood, but anyone they passed turned a blind eye. It didn’t seem like the authorities were on their way, anyway. Welcome to Brooklyn, he guessed. 

They’d had to climb three flights of stairs, drunk, after having walked from the bar. It’d sobered them up some, but also he was fucking tired and everything was a little hard to process.

They shambled into the room exhausted, brainless and tripping over each other. Ian laughed as George ran into the wall with his shoulder, cussing on impact. Ian couldn’t imagine him walking home alone like that.

“Where’s your first-aid kit?” Ian asked as George half-crawled to the couch, pulling himself up onto the cushions.

“In the bathroom.” George licked his fingers and started to wipe the dried blood off his cheek.

“I don’t think that’s sanitary,” Ian said. George shrugged. Ian went down the hallway to retrieve the supplies.

When he got back with kit in newly-washed hands, George had been able to wipe most of the blood off his cheek, but had got it on his most of his fingers. Ian knelt in front of him, situated himself between George’s knees and putting the first aid-kit on the floor next to him. Ian leaned up and looked at George’s cut, semi-cradling his face to keep George still and running a thumb across George’s stubbly, spit-moistened cheek. George was looking in the corner of the ceiling, not at Ian.

Ian let go of George’s face, leaned down and opened the first-aid kit, which was actually a toolbox with the words “first aid” written on it in Sharpie. He pawed through it, getting out the butterfly band-aids, then some sanitary towelettes as an afterthought. Then he saw topical antibacterial spray.

Ian read the back of the topical spray can, held it up, and straightened his back so he was level with George again.

“Close your eyes,” Ian said. “And probably your mouth.” 

George closed his eyes and mouth. Ian put his hand over George’s eyes and sprayed the cut. George jumped at the sudden cold spray, and breathed in sharply through his nose as it stung. Ian took his hand off George’s eyes.

“It has to dry,” Ian said in a low voice. George opened his eyes. Ian took the moist towelettes and wiped George’s cheek, getting the blood George had missed with his fingers and spit. He then wiped George’s fingers, awkwardly holding his hands to do it.

“How many band-aids should I use?” Ian asked, clearing his throat. He picked up the strip of butterfly bandages.

“I don’t know. I can’t see it,” George said. He was already bracing himself. Ian ripped two bandages off the strip.

“All righty,” Ian said, lamely. “This is gonna suck.”

George nodded, scrunching his face as much as he could without making the cut hurt. Ian took the backing off one of the bandages and gingerly pressed one of the tabs on the lower side of the gash. Ian clenched his jaw as he pressed the other side of the cut down with his fingers, attempting to join the two sides before pressing down the other tab. George sucked air through his teeth, his shoulders tensing.

Ian took the backing off the other band-aid and quickly applied it next to the other, George reacting even less this time. 

Ian sat back on his haunches.

“Should we put a band-aid over it?” Ian asked, looking down at the first-aid kit.

“Yeah.” Ian put the butterfly bandages and topical spray back into the tool box and rifled through it until he found a large band-aid.

Ian brought himself level with George again, taking the backing off of the band-aid and, avoiding George’s eyes, situated it onto George’s cut, brushing the fabric of the band-aid with his thumb to smooth it down. The silence of the apartment was consuming.

George’s fingers brushed Ian’s cheek. Ian’s thumb stalled below George’s eye. George touched Ian’s lips, fingers sliding slowly upward. Ian tried to look him in the eye, but George was looking at his hand.

George inclined his head, nuzzled Ian’s cheek with his nose, following a similar path to his fingers, casually brushing his lips against Ian’s lips. Ian’s groggy brain stalled, refusing to identify the action. Thoughtlessly, Ian leaned forward, covering George’s mouth with his own, the hand that had been smoothing the band-aid snaking back into George’s hair. George rested his forearms on Ian’s shoulders, edging forward off the couch, turning his head to open his mouth.

Ian’s brain caught up with his actions, jarring him out of his momentary lapse of judgement. He pushed George away, their lips parting with an audible click. He held George at arm’s length, unsure.

George looked remorseful, seated on the edge of the couch, still refusing to make eye contact. 

Ian tried to reconcile it like he always could. It was a joke; it was a means to an end. It didn’t change him. He didn’t feel different. And it didn’t hit him like he thought it would. Alone in George’s apartment, in a completely different world, Ian couldn’t discern, for that moment, weirdness from weirdness. He’d kissed George before. He’d known what it was like. George tasted the same. 

If they were ever to make this mistake, now was the time to do it. Their mixing breath was rank with alcohol, and Ian could still feel the inebriated slant in the room. George’s fingers nervously touched the back of Ian’s neck, eyes on Ian’s lips. The band-aid ironically made him look younger.

Ian pressed forward again, carelessly taking George’s bottom lip between his own, his breathing a harsh sigh through his nose. Ian lifted himself, dragging his body across George’s as he angled his face to keep their mouths together. George’s legs spread, and Ian’s hand clutched George’s thigh for balance, his other hand clamped on the back of the couch. George’s arms fell from Ian’s shoulders, his hands sliding down Ian’s body and gripping Ian’s sides. Ian held him flush, hugging his body against George’s, leaning on him to help keep himself on the couch. 

George turned his head, angling to pull Ian’s lips apart, his tongue swiping across the bottom of Ian’s top lip. Ian hummed into George’s mouth, straining to keep his hands where they were, the tendons in his wrists standing visible. Ian rocked his body forward, fignernails digging into the fabric of the couch, of George’s jeans.

George nudged Ian away, taking a panting breath. Ian kept his face tilted, eyes closed, his nose angled beside George’s.

“Sorry,” George said. Ian didn’t know what that meant. His fingers gripped George’s thigh harder.

Ian attended to George’s lips again, ignoring the growing discomfort in his Levi’s, the demoralizing reaction of George’s body. He just wanted to quiet the sudden aching in his mouth, the shiver in his hands. He couldn’t touch him hard enough.

Ian licked into George’s mouth, pushing George’s shirt up to run his hands across warm skin. Ian’s fingers skated across George’s stomach, his ribs, his chest. George curved into the touch, moaning against Ian’s insistent mouth.

George tapped Ian’s side, his leg pressing against the opposite flank. Ian sucked on George’s lip as he pulled away. He rolled off of George so he was now sitting on the couch. George straddled Ian’s lap, pulling his v-neck over his head, and ran a lewd hand down Ian’s still-clothed torso. Ian hadn’t thought about how fucking pretentious the shirt he wore was until George was unbuttoning it, opening it so it hung loosely off his shoulders. George’s fingers hooked under the top of Ian’s fly, pulling his waistband from his navel. Ian bit into his own lips hard, hating the way he felt - weak, addled, and debauched - half-hard and unwilling to say no.

George leaned forward and kissed Ian’s neck, his five o’clock shadow uncomfortably scratching Ian’s skin. He undid Ian’s fly, pushing Ian’s jeans open. His hand slowly searched the skin of Ian’s lower navel, until his fingers slid across the waistband of Ian’s boxers. He continued downwards, palming the front of Ian’s boxers as he settled back on Ian’s knees; Ian gripped the couch, looking anywhere but George.

George grabbed the fabric at the top of the Ian’s loosened jeans with both hands as he put both of his feet on the floor. George backed up from the couch, towing Ian to his feet with him. Ian’s shirt stayed behind. George shuffled backwards, pulling Ian forward. Ian dazedly followed.

George guided them to Ian’s, or more accurately, his unknown roommate’s, room. Ian didn’t protest when George pushed him onto the bed, when George climbed on top of him, when he pressed his mouth to Ian’s shoulder, when he trailed lower lazily, tongue flicking across Ian’s body as he made his deliberate way down to the hardness at Ian’s hips. 

George mouthed Ian’s tip through the cotton fabric of Ian’s underwear, his hands on either side of Ian to hold himself up. Ian arched his back, unable to check an embarrassing groan. His hand agitatedly carded into George’s hair, fingers restlessly catching. George lifted himself, his mouth leaving Ian’s prick. Ian’s hand moved with him, unimposing and sluggish. George looked up at Ian, hawkishly amused. Ian was belatedly annoyed, face tinted red.

“How long do you usually last?” George asked. Ian clenched his jaw as George pushed Ian’s jeans and underwear off his hips. Ian balked at the sight of his own erection, the fingers in George’s hair curling. “You’ve got the stamina of a virgin.”

“Fuck you,” Ian breathed.

“Fuck you,” George parroted with a dippy wink. He held the base of Ian’s cock, licking the bottom with exaggerated slowness. Ian clamped his mouth shut, whining in the back of his throat as George’s tongue grazed his tip. George’s lips parted, taking him into his mouth.

Ian gasped, the hand not yanking George’s hair gripping the blanket underneath them. He was focussed on the ceiling, brows furrowed, trying to stop the rapidly growing ache in his hips. George’s hands held down Ian’s hips, preventing him any considerable movement. Ian made the decision to look down at him.

Wires had crossed. Ian suddenly fell for the idea of George blowing him, the sight of George’s yielding mouth wrapped around his dick enough to make him dizzy.

“Jesus Christ,” Ian hissed. “George, I’m gonna- fuck-”

Ian came into George’s mouth with a suppressed groan, eyes clamped shut and teeth buried in his bottom lip. George swallowed his load, thumbs digging into Ian’s jutting hipbones. Ian opened his eyes just in time to see George’s lips leave his tip.

George pulled himself eye-level to Ian. Ian laid exhausted underneath him, his hand still loosely tucked into George’s hair, panting breaths escaping parted lips. George covered Ian’s lips with his own, humming a parting word. Ian wrapped his arm around George’s waist, angling his arm to feel his prominent shoulder blades with his roaming fingertips.

George attempted to sit up, to pull away from Ian, but Ian followed him, his hands clumsily finding George’s fly. Ian pressed his forehead on George’s shoulder so he didn’t have to see his abashed face, looked down at George’s lap, unbuttoning the button, unzipping the zipper. George’s hands were resting on the back of Ian’s shoulders, silent.

Ian had no idea what he was doing. He got the front of George’s pants open, feeling George’s member at attention, pushed George’s boxer-briefs out of the way. George’s cock was wet with pre-cum. Ian really only knew how to do one thing. He spit into his hand and wrapped his fingers around the shaft. George inhaled sharply, his fingers curling imperceptibly into Ian’s back, dull fingernails scratching his shoulders. Ian stroked him stiffly, trying to figure it out as he went.

George pushed Ian’s forehead off his shoulder, bringing their mouths together and covering the hand on his cock with his own. George licked the side of Ian’s mouth, showing Ian with his hand the desired movement. George pressed his whiskered cheek against Ian’s, rolling his hips into their hands.

“Shit,” George exhaled, bringing his hands up to Ian’s face. Ian quickened his pace, trying to keep steady his amateur handjob. It didn’t seem to matter how bad Ian was. George gasped anyway, cumming into Ian’s hand and on Ian’s stomach. Ian rubbed him out, his hand becoming somewhat smoother on George’s dick. George pressed a closed mouth kiss to Ian’s cheek, his hands cupping Ian’s head. 

They sat in that position in silent exhaustion, catching their breath. Ian’s hands were now holding George’s hips, enjoying the thin bones.

It dawned on them slowly. George’s hand left Ian’s face, sliding tiredly down to Ian’s shoulders. He shifted, his cheek leaving Ian’s. He avoided Ian’s eye. Ian avoided his.

George fumblingly got off of Ian’s lap, pulling his underwear back on, leaving the fly of his jeans undone, sitting on the edge of the bed, away from Ian. Ian looked dazedly down at his own lap, unsure of how to deal with this. He was a mess. 

George stood up, his back to Ian, running a hand over his face. Ian waited.

“The bathroom’s down the hallway,” George finally murmured flatly. He staggered out of Ian’s room, leaving the door open. Ian heard him close the door to his bedroom.


	7. Tame Impala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said it was going to be next week, but I got the chapter done, so I'm posting it now. This week has been LONG as HELL. But it's done, it's over, and I finished the chapter. Here y'all go :*

Ian woke up to the sound of a kettle whistling. He groaned and rolled over, wrapping the blanket firmly over his shoulder. His hair was still damp from the late-night shower, his pillow wettish. The space around him felt unfamiliar, his inner ear trying to interpret it as his bedroom and confusedly failing. Irked, he peeled his head off his pillow, sat up. The light sifting in through the window didn’t seem like the gauzy light of morning. He scrubbed his face; the skin felt grimy and tight. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry and his body was sore. He’d forgotten to take his contacts out. The first two knuckles of his right hand were bruised. Ian flexed his fingers, inhaling sharply at the dull pain. 

“Fuck.”

He leaned over the side of the bed to pick up his discarded jeans. He felt the pockets to find his phone, with no luck. He tossed the jeans aside. He checked the night stand. No phone. Annoyed, he groggily rolled off the bed, in boxers and undershirt, got to his feet, stretching, his back popping.

He tottered over to where his luggage laid limp. He slumped onto the floor, sat indian style, scrubbing his face with his hands. He dragged his unpacked bookbag onto his lap, opening pockets at random until he found the one that had his contact case and fluid. He took out his contacts, blinking. His right hand, the one with the bruised knuckles, was hard pressed to cooperate with him. He searched his bookbag again, found his glasses. He slid those on. Found ibuprofen. Took that dry. He checked for his phone. Not there.

Ian glanced briefly around his room, on the floor, knowing damn well his phone couldn’t be anywhere else. With a sigh, he hoisted himself off the ground, walked to the door, grabbed the knob with his left hand, steeled himself, and walked out.

Ian shuffled down the hallway, squeezing his eyes shut to ward against his persistent headache.

George was leaning against the counter of the kitchen, staring into his mug of instant coffee.

“Good morning,” Ian said readily, keeping his eyes closed and walking casually past.

“‘Morning,” George said into his coffee, his voice low. Ian ambled over to the couch, stopping a few steps away, and gave it a cursory once over, aiming at nonchalance with his hand rubbing his eye. The first aid kit was still sitting on the floor, opened.

“Have you seen my phone?” Ian asked, trying not to visibly hesitate to get closer to the couch.

“Uh, no. Sorry.” George said, staring straight forward. Ian groaned internally, stepping forward and checking the couch. His phone was plainly wedged between the middle cushions. Ian checked it for the time. 2pm. And 3 missed texts from a number he didn’t recognize.

“You find it?” George asked, stepping forward from the counter. Ian turned, looked over at George to find him looking back. The skin around the band-aid below George’s eye was swollen black and blue. Ian blinked, keeping a passive expression despite the momentary flush of unease he felt.

“Yeah, it was in-” Ian gestured to the couch, looking down at his phone. George nodded coolly. “I think I gave Goomba my number last night.” George laughed, raising his eyebrows.

“Good luck with that,” he said.

“I don’t even remember doing it,” Ian said. George took a drink of coffee. Ian wet his lips, holding his phone tightly. “I didn’t even meet, who was it...?”

“Pookie and Brock Lee,” George provided, face faux-serious.

“Are they strippers, too?” Ian asked. “Are these their stripper names?”

“Unfortunately, Pookie and Brock Lee are not strippers,” George informed Ian apologetically.

“No?”

“I’m sure they’d  _ like _ to be strippers, but-” George shrugged. “Just can’t break into the industry, I guess.”

“It’s a pretty competitive business, I hear,” Ian said. “You gotta pay your dues first.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, uh,” Ian said, groping for a continuation on the joke. He was way too hungover. The pause was too long. “Fuck. I got nothing.”

“The dangers of improv. Good thing you’re not a comedian or anything.” George turned, shuffled, and set his coffee down on the table. “Would you like some premium Great Value brand instant coffee? It tastes like a coal miner’s asshole.”

“Oh, hell yeah.”

George opened a cabinet and got out the generic container of instant coffee. Ian strolled over, sat down at the table. He steeled himself before he opened the messages he got from, presumably, Goomba. 

It was definitely Goomba. Two of the texts were literally nudes and the third one was random bars of a rap Ian didn’t recognize. Ian laughed, pushing his glasses up with one hand to rub his eyes.

“Fucking Christ.”

“She’s batshit,” George said without turning around, pouring hot water from the kettle into a mug of powdered instant coffee.

“What’s her name?” Ian asked.

George put Ian’s coffee in front of him, the spoon clinking against the edge.

“Why don’t you ask her?” George asked. 

“I’m not texting her back,” Ian said incredulously.

“You’re going to hurt my friend’s feelings, Ian.” George sat across the table from Ian. “If you’re curious, just ask.”

Ian looked down at the naked Goomba body on his phone screen, ran his tongue against the back of his teeth.

“What’s the plan for today?” Ian asked, still looking at his phone.

“Recover from yesterday.” Ian looked up. “Getting punched in the face doesn’t feel as fantastic the next day as you’d think.”

Ian looked back down, examined his own discolored knuckles. George downed the rest of his coffee. A blue quiet drifted between them. 

Ian picked up his mug and took the first sip of his coffee. He coughed it back into the cup, scrunching his face.

“That’s disgusting,” Ian stated. George nodded solemnly. “How the fuck do you drink that shit?”

“Complete apathy,” George said.

“That’s probably the gayest shit I’ve ever heard you say,” Ian said. George’s eyes widened momentarily, his lips fighting a grin.

“I don’t know about that,” George said. Ian clenched his jaw.

Ian got up from the table and unceremoniously dumped the rest of the coffee into the sink. George stayed seated.

“I’m going to go unpack,” Ian said, and scurried down the hall before George could respond. 

Ian’s brain was on complete lockdown. An impenetrable wall was being laid around him, brick by brick, replacing the grogginess of just waking up with actual abnegation. Ian paused in the middle of his borrowed room, delayed self-conscious. He pulled his jeans on before picking up his book bag and tossing it onto the bed. He pulled out his laptop, the tangled charger cables, unzipped smaller compartments, dumped the travel size toothpaste and toothbrush, razor and deodorant onto the bed sheets. Ian’s mouth tasted bad, from morning breath and oil coffee. He plucked the toiletries off the bed.

The bathroom was a cramped plain windowless cubicle with a sink and a small inlaid tub with a shower head. The mirror above the sink reflected the plain color of the wall across from it. Stacked around the faucet were various scum covered toothbrushes and rusted razors and a cup with a couple, less disgusting-looking toothbrushes.

Ian hadn’t noticed the disarray the night before. He couldn’t remember what exactly was going through his mind when he had been looking for the first-aid kit.

Ian opened the mirror cabinet to try to find a place to put his stuff. There were deodorants, hair-products, a pretty fucked up looking comb, a row of cylindrical little orange bottles.

“You should really keep your toothbrush in the cabinet, it’s more sanitary,” Ian said through the open bathroom door. He tried to move the comb and all the shit fell off the shelf and clattered into the sink.

“What?” George called back.

Ian cussed inwardly, trying to shove it all back into the cabinet. Down the hall, out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see George get up from the table.

“I said you should consider putting your toothbrush in the cabinet because it’s more sanitary.”

“That’s a fucking myth,” George was saying as he walked towards the bathroom. He stood in the doorway, his hands in the pockets of his Adidas joggers, and zeroed in on the orange bottles in Ian’s hands. His eyes didn’t leave them. “The medicine cabinet is the perfect environment for bacteria to grow.”

“But the toilet sprays shit into the air,” Ian said, distracted. “I watched a Mythbusters about it.”

Ian was also looking down at the pill bottles. He couldn’t remember ever seeing George with pills bottles in Perth. Medication clinked loudly against the plastic when Ian turned them. They were nearly full and the prescriptions were old, overdue, and, besides the two bottles in Ian’s hands, there were three more orange containers in the sink. Ian looked over at George. George was deadpan.

Ian put the bottles back into the cabinet. George scrutinized the floor, his lips pursed.

“Who’s comb is this?” Ian asked. The comb in question, held tightly in Ian’s right hand,  was missing more than a few teeth.

“Mine,” George told the tile.

“It’s fucked.”

“It’s just a comb,” George said. “It functions.”

Ian opened his mouth, then closed it. 

George’s phone rang in his pocket. Ian looked down at him, at his hunched shoulders and down-tilted head. George pulled the phone out of his pocket, ran a hand over his brow, turned and walked down the hallway. Ian tried not to watch him go, releasing the comb into the sink and letting his throbbing knuckles breathe. 

Ian couldn’t hear George’s conversation over the running water as he brushed his teeth.


	8. Weathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SUPER EXCITED to link an amazing fan art drawn by junkphilia: 
> 
> http://mrseifuzu.tumblr.com/post/152281798892/this-picture-is-the-sound-of-trillions-of-people
> 
> It's a scene from chapter 6, Son Lux, so... kinda NSFW, be warned. I love it so much. Like I'm just tickled pissless to have this super cute, stylized rendition of a scene I wrote. Life changing, tbh. Brings tears to these weary eyes.

“Listen, twat, I’m not splitting the money 30/70, all right? You get 10, or you get nothing.” Max was walking home, with a clearly drunk Chad in tow. The late afternoon sun was falling behind them, casting their shadows in front of them. It was the hottest part of the day, and sweat was dewing on Max’s forehead. He didn’t even bother wiping it off.

“You’re fucking pistol whipping me, for fucking nothing.” Chad had taken off his shirt, had lost it some ways back.

“We used to have a good thing going. What the fuck has gotten into you?” Max looked down at the cash in his hands, shaking his head at the meager score.

“I don’t fucking know. I’ve lost the prize-winning poker face.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re lucky that wasn’t at a casino, or we would’ve been fucked dry.” Max shoved the money back into his pocket. His hand hit his phone and he got it out to check his messages. “We’re running out of ‘friends’ who have poker games, all right? We’re running out of options.”

“I know.”

“Do you? The only reason this was lucrative was because we had a bunch of places to hit up. Now we’re down to two.” He swiped away the notifications on his lock screen. A text popped up from Ian, a few minutes old. Max pursed his lips, opened it.

[I’m in New York.]

“Whaaat,” Max muttered.

“What?” Chad asked Max. Max looked at him over his shoulder.

“Nothing.” Max started tapping a response into his phone. “We’re going to lose our reputation as trustworthy, Australian citizens pretty soon. Words gonna get around that we’re fucking people under the table and then we’re really out to dry.”

[What are you doing in New York?] Max texted back. Max’s phone buzzed almost immediately.

[I’m with George.] Max futilely tried to push his hair out of his face. It was sticking to his forehead with sweat.

[At his apartment?] Max asked.

[Yeah.]

[Oh? You having a good time with his roommates?] There was a longish pause. The bubble which indicated that Ian was typing illustrated Ian’s multiple attempts at an answer.

[His roommates aren’t here.] Max almost laughed, ran a hand over his sweaty forehead.

[Where are they?]

[Vacation.] Max started typing out a pretty sarcastic comment when Ian texted again: [Can I call you?]

Max looked back at Chad, who was focussing on not falling over.

[Chad’s with me, but he’s shitfaced.]

[That’s fine.] 

Max dialed Ian’s phone.

“Who’re you calling?” Chad asked.

“Ian. Now, shush.”

Ian picked up.

“Hey,” Ian said, his voice grainy. Max was watching his feet as he continued to walk forward.

“Hey, pal of mine, what’s been going on?” Max asked. “Whatcha been up to?”

“Uhm, well,” Ian sighed. “Uh… how-how are  _ you _ ?”

“I’ve been pretty good,” Max said. “Can we skip to the part where we talk about the reason you called me?”

“I found George’s medication,” Ian said softly. The words hung for a second.

“Ah.”

“I’ve, uh, never seen him take them,” Ian said.

“Yeah.”

“Does he take them?” Ian asked in a small voice. Max exhaled loudly, closed his eyes as he stopped walking. Chad bumped into his back, tottered backwards, and plopped down on the curb. They were a block or so from Max’s house.

“Uh, no. He doesn’t,” Max said flatly, crossing his arms and ducking his head.

“Why not?”

“I’m not sure.”

“How long- has he… uh-”

“Don’t know.”  Max heard Ian shift, the rustle of the phone moving. “A few months, maybe longer.”

“But you knew about it?” Ian asked. Max cleared his throat.

“Yeah,” Max said, sitting down on the curb next to Chad. “Not that I could do shit about it.”

“Should I do something?” Ian asked. Max stared at the hot pavement. The phone was getting slick on his cheek. “Should I say something?”

“How long have you been in New York?” Max asked. 

“A couple days.”

“What have you been doing?”

“We went out last night,” Ian said, then hesitated. “George- We got kicked out of the strip club. Kind of. I don’t know.”

“What the fuck, why wasn’t I invited?” Max said, jokingly.

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Ian said. Max pursed his lips.

“George is… a private guy, I guess. I, uh,” Max looked at Chad out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t tell if he was listening. “I’ve confronted him about this, you know, all this shit. He brushed it off. I think he wants me to drop it.”

“Are you going to drop it?”

“No.” Max swallowed. “Look, I know George probably has a better support system somewhere else, but I don’t know how to reach it. I don’t know who knows what, so I’m not about to air his dirty laundry.”

“This is way above my pay grade,” Ian said, his voice thick. He cleared his throat. “This isn’t my business; I barely know the guy.”

“Fuck your libertarian sensibilities, man.” Max wished he hadn’t forgotten his cigarettes on the kitchen table. He pressed his knuckle to his lips, thinking. “How long are you staying in New York?”

“A week.”

“Does he know you know?”

“Uh, maybe? He saw me see them - the pill bottles, I mean - but I pussied out of talking about it.” Max heard the hollow swish of a liquor bottle over the phone.  _ Oh, Jesus. _

“I have no fucking idea what he thinks he’s doing, but it’s retarded. He’s gotta stop all this gay shit or he’s gonna fuck himself up. Like really fuck himself up.” Max ran a hand over his mouth, trying to keep his head on his shoulders. “I hate to be the PTA mom, but you need to talk to him.”

“How?” Ian asked, an edge to his voice. 

“You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can figure it out.” Max’s eyes wandered back to Chad. Chad was looking at the pavement, but Max felt like he was listening now. “Just try to keep it casual, or something.” Ian laughed, a harsh sound over the phone.

“Keep it casual,” Ian repeated caustically, voice distant, like the phone was being held away from his face. “I’m the fucking king of keeping it casual, you know that? Fucking champ of keeping shit straight in line. I’m a fucking professional.”

“All right,” Max said in a low voice. “Is there anything else you need to talk about?”

There was a long pause.

“Maybe another reason you called?” Max continued. “Because, you know, no judgment or anything.”

“We don’t have to do this faggot shit,” Ian said. 

“You started the faggot shit, faggot.” Max stood up from the curb. Chad unsteadily followed. 

“We still don’t have to do this faggot shit.”

“All right.” Max and Chad’s shadows lead the way as they started back towards the house. The line went quiet again. The phone stayed on Max’s ear as he waited.

“I don’t know,” Ian finally muttered. “Shit’s kinda fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m in his roommate’s room,” Ian said. “George didn’t even tell them I was staying here.”

“Which roommate?”

“Fuck, I don’t know.” Ian laughed. “But it was either this or the couch or, you know- George’s- uh-” Ian stopped himself. He exhaled loudly and it almost sounded like a laugh. “Why the fuck am I here?”

“For some gay ass reasons probably.” Ian laughed for real.

“That’s some real existential shit right there, Maxime.”

“Still valid,” Max said, vaguely.

“Right. I’ll get back to you when I figure it out,” Ian said. “In the meantime, I’m gonna let you go. It’s pretty late and I’m… well, I’m pretty- just kind of- drunk.”

“Oh shit, I forgot. 12 hour difference.” Max and Chad had gotten to the front door of Max’s place. “G’night, Ian. Chad, say good night.” Max held out the phone.

“Nighty night, bitch,” Chad said.

“Text me,” Max said, grinning. Ian hung up. Max took the phone off his ear and wiped the sweat off on his pants, his expression shifting distant, contemplative. 

“Oi, cunt, we’re home. Get the door open,” Chad said. Max blinked, looked at him, got out his keys. The door swung lazily open. “And I’m gonna be needing my 30 percent”

“10 percent, shit head. You’re lucky you’re getting any.”

Max closed the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all aren't thinking that this fanfic is winding down, because I still have a lot of shit in the works.
> 
> I'm also tossing around ideas for other jojian fanfics to start when I'm done with this one. We'll just see how busy life gets yada yada but... yeah, I'm just hoping to contribute to beefing up the jojian tag. There are so many other talented writers doing the same thing, which I'm hella enjoying. Like I'm just so in love with this tiny fandom. Tiny fandoms are honestly so much better than big-ass commercial fandoms, with their fucking politics and discourse, all those fucking Superwholock wanna-be SJW fucks with their enforced streamlined character interpretations and shit. Breaks my heart.


	9. M.I.A.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late lmao here u go. Hopefully this shit isn't too bad. I don't really like the pacing but w/e.
> 
> ENJOY.

 

The evening sky cast the room in blues and purples, the light from his laptop faintly glowing white against the carpet. A Word document with discursive monogue had long replaced the video editing program. Ian was lying on his back on the floor of his room, his laptop to his left and his phone to his right. He could hear the water running in the bathroom, knew George was taking a shower. He tried not to think about that. About George, naked, a few strides away. That was definitely a problem he’d never had before. He turned his head, glared at the light caught on the half empty plastic flask of cheapy gas station vodka. It smelled like nail polish remover and tasted worst.

The sun had slowly slid past the window. Ian had squinted at his laptop, avoiding videos with George in them. Avoiding videos with Max in them. He’d spent hours staring at his own face, listening to his own voice, yammering to the camera, making a mess in his room. He’d divorced himself from the retard on the screen. 

The shower shut off. Ian pulled his lips between his teeth.

His legs were restless, even if his head was pounding. His phone buzzed for the nth time, and he ignored it for the nth time. His glasses were tossed next to his laptop. He sat up, ran a hand through his hair.

He still had four more days to stay in George’s apartment and he’d already destroyed any semblance of normality that he’d walked in with. It was entirely unignorable at this point. Ian was blocked in with too many problems on all sides, unable to look at George without thinking about something deplorable or depressing. He would’ve given anything to pretend none of it had happened, to remain blissfully unaware of all this shit, just skipping his merry way around the streets of Brooklyn with his good, healthy platonic buddy. He didn’t know how to handle this shit in the slightest, but the pleasure of being faced with it every second he sat on the floor of some stranger’s room had been happily bestowed upon him. It’s not like he thought he was going to have a relaxing time in New York. The only time Ian was going to relax was when he was mercifully dead.

A knock at the door snapped him out of his reverie. Ian scooted the liquor under the bed, embarrassed. There was another knock, sharper.

He realized the knock was at the apartment door, not his bedroom door. He picked up his glasses, wiped the lenses with his cotton t-shirt, and put them on. The momentary panic lingered anyway.

He stood up, shuffled to the bedroom door, opened it, peered down the hallway. The sound of a key unlocking a door knob was eerily drifting down the hall. He stepped out into the hallway just in time to see someone in a worn coat waltz into the apartment, brown paper grocery bags in arm.

“Goomba?” Ian trotted forward, taking one of the grocery bags from her arm. She looked mildly pissed.

“I couldn’t get a hold of you or George, what the fuck?” She strutted into the kitchen, pushed trash and dishes aside to make room for the brown bag on the counter. “I’ve been texting all day.”

“You brought food?” Ian asked, looking into the bag he was holding. It contained, unironically, dozens of packages of ramen. He put it down on the table.

“Yeah,” Goomba opened a cabinet and started putting the contents of her bag away: instant coffee, sugar, bread. She opened the fridge, and put in a carton of milk. Ian was trying to formulate a good question when Goomba pointed a stern finger to the middle of his chest. “We’re going out tonight.”

“I can’t wiggle out of it?”

“You can try,” Goomba said, her hand resting on Ian’s shirt.

The sound of the bathroom door opening whispered down the hallway, muted footsteps walking towards the kitchen.

George stood in the archway in boxer-briefs, cinnamon soft skin still damp from the shower. The band-aid under his eye had fallen off, leaving just the butterfly stitches holding together his green-brown smudged cheek. His hands combed his wet soot hair, trying to style it with his finger tips, water dripping onto his round shoulders. Ian reluctantly noticed the way George’s stomach muscles twitched under his skin, the body hair that ran from his bellybutton to his waistband, his mind conjuring up images Ian had been systematically avoiding.

“Did you get my texts?” Goomba asked George, unaware of the crisis Ian was having.

“Yeah, and I ignored them,” George said.

“Fucking typical. I shoulda skipped it.”

“Thank you, Goomba.” George said, sing-songy. “For making sure I have food in my apartment.”

“You’re welcome, you ungrateful prick.” Goomba gripped Ian’s shirt. “As reward, I’m taking Ian.”

“Where?” George asked.

“Not sure yet. Some place a lot more fun than Heaven, that’s for sure.” Ian watched George’s subdued expression grow illogically cold before he could cover it up with a goofy grin. 

“You be careful.” He said loftily. “He’s just a fetus.”

“I’m actually older than you,” Ian said. “Go fuck yourself.” George looked up at him, eyes harshly bright.

“Fine, okay.” George shrugged, walked past them to the fridge. He got out the milk, took a swig straight from the carton. He ran the back of his hand over his lips, wiping away the wetness. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“That’s rich,” Goomba said. Ian reflexively clenched his bruised knuckles, appreciating the dull burn. Goomba tugged at Ian’s shirt, guiding him toward the door. She teased: “Bye, George. Don’t wait up.”

“I’m not his dad; I don’t care,” George sang back, shutting the fridge. Ian caught his eye for a split second, but George’s face was unreadable.

Goomba opened the apartment door and pushed Ian out. Ian stumbled into the outside hall. Goomba closed the door, staying turned to lock it.

“I don’t have any shoes on,” Ian said, lamely. Goomba looked over her shoulder at him, down to his bare feet. She reopened the door, leaned in, and grabbed a pair of George’s Adidas flip flops. They hit the ground in front of Ian’s feet with a dull thump.

“Isn’t it a little early to be going out? It’s only 8,” Ian said, finding the shoes a little too small.

“You look like shit,” she said over the jingling sound of keys.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know I was about to be whisked away to the ball,” Ian said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his grey sweat pants. He looked more ready to go to bed than to go out on the town.

“Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Goomba asked, pivoting to look at him, tucking her keys into her pocket. Ian blinked at her. “I know why George didn’t: he’s an asshole suffering from executive dysfunction. I thought you were chill.”

“You barely know me.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to be rude,” Goomba said, giving Ian a hard look. She started towards the elevator. “We’re going back to my apartment and you’re cleaning up.”

“Why can’t I just get ready in George’s apartment?” Ian asked, staying where he stood.

“Because we already left,” Goomba said, walking backwards to maintain eye contact. “Stop being a faggot.”

Ian sighed, ducking his head. He wasn’t in the mood to fight Goomba on this, but more importantly he wasn’t exactly ready to jump back into the boiling pot just to take a shower. Being outside the apartment, with nothing but the sound of Goomba agitatedly tapping the elevator button, Ian realized part of the reason he’d left the night before to get the gas station alcohol was to escape. It’d been a weight off his shoulders to have an excuse to avoid confrontation. To leave the apartment.

He joined Goomba in waiting for the elevator, guiltily relieved.

“I guess I’m wearing sweats, then?” Ian said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Goomba said to the elevator door. “Do you know how many men I take back to my apartment in a week? I’m sure I can find you something to wear.”

“They leave their clothes?”

“I steal their clothes.” The elevator doors opened.

 

-

 

Clothes covered the ground, the chairs, the sofa, the tables as Ian tip-toed around liquor bottles and drug paraphernalia embedded in the mottled colors. The air was thick with the smell of weed and a misty atmosphere hung low from the vape her roommate was systematically billowing into the air. The woman on the sofa appeared much more clean-cut than Goomba, and didn’t acknowledge Ian’s entrance into the apartment at all. Goomba shrugged off her coat and tossed it on top of one of the many piles of clothes. 

“That’s Rebecca. She’s got an office job, so we don’t talk to her,” Goomba said. “Let me show you to the bathroom.”

They walked down a hallway left of the living room, past cracked dark blue doors, most of which were propped open by the irrational amount of clothes on the floor. On one of the beds sat a waify black guy with red Beats on his ears and a Macbook on his lap. He looked up when Ian peeked in. Ian quickly averted his eyes.

“Watch where you step,” Goomba said as she led him into a bedroom. “There legit might be needles on the floor. Sewing needles. Maybe drug needles.”

“Oh, okay,” Ian said sarcastically, balancing awkwardly between two perceived clean spots.

On the farthest side of the bedroom, Goomba jimmied a door open despite the clothes on the floor obstructing it. She gestured his entering it. He stared into the open door, confused.

The bathroom was an oasis of cleanliness, in stark difference to the walls outside of it, which boasted worn peeling wallpaper and dull chipping paint. It was stylish tile, clean chrome finishes, and moldless shower curtains. Fresh towels hung, properly folded, from the rack. Lined behind the faucet were variously shaped and colored beauty products, reflected perfectly in the smudgeless mirror behind them. 

“This is your bathroom?” Ian asked, reluctant to walk in.

“A woman is only as good as her sanctuary,” Goomba said, shrugging. “I can’t stand dirty bathrooms.”

“Do you share it with Rebecca?”

“Fuck no, are you kidding? That bitch can suck my clit.” Goomba trudged over to a corner, started pawing through one of the bigger piles of clothes. Ian continued to hesitate. “Get your scrawny ass in the shower.”

Ian sidestepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. 

There was a small frosted glass window behind him, letting in very low light. Ian flicked one of the switches next to the door, and ultraviolet lights from around the mirror illuminated his face, plunging the room into neon relief. His teeth glowed cyan. He had no idea what the use of that shit would be. He flicked another switch and red lights turned on overhead, casting his hair in bright crimson. The bathroom looked like a 70s wet dream, like aliens on acid. It was tempting to take a shower with the lights fucked, but it was disorienting and somewhat disturbing. He flicked those switches back off, tried the last one. Normal light flooded the room. 

Ian kicked off the flip-flops, placed his glasses on the counter.

He’d planned on taking a short shower, but Goomba’s water pressure was a lot better than George’s. He stood under the buffeting water, his eyes drooped closed, tired mind going blissfully blank. 

The only shampoo in the shower was coconut scented, which he supposed wasn’t too feminine. It smelled like Goomba. He glared idly at the coconut shampoo, helplessly wondered what George smelled like when he hadn’t been permeating in tobacco and liquor. 

“Knock, knock,” Goomba said as she opened the door, sans actually knocking. “I’ve gotta grab something. Stay where you are… or don’t... I’m down with whatever.”

The sound of Goomba opening a cabinet and rifling through its contents was barely audible over the rush of water as Ian lathered his hair. Water rhythmically slapped the linoleum at Ian’s feet, suds sliding down his body as it poured over his face, hands slicking through his hair.

The bathroom door closed again.

Ian sighed, took a quick gander out the curtains to make sure Goomba had actually left before turning off the faucet. The bathroom was filled with echoing quiet. He ran his hands over his face, squeegeeing off the water and flicking it to the ground.

He was frustrated and he couldn’t quite pin down why or with whom. It was a sorry feeling, like he’d taken too long a breath and held it, left his chest hollow. Directionless, internalized, domesticated aggression that he’d been chewing on was surfacing in the consumerist pallor of a stripper’s ultraviolet bathroom. He’d been some cowboy waving his guns around to distract from the black eye and the nick in his tooth. He was being dramatic, and his being dramatic made the drama necessary. The more he allowed himself the histrionics, the less he could write it off as no big deal. One time deal. Mistake.

He opened the curtain to find Goomba had stolen his clothes off the floor.

“Fucking-” Ian grabbed the towel off the rack, wrapped it around his hips, stepping out of the tub and snatching his glasses off the counter. “Goomba, I swear to God.”

He shoved the bathroom door open, keeping the towel on his body with one hand. The bedroom was vacant, dim in comparison to the lit bathroom. He took a tentative step forward, remembering the potential Hepatitis B ridden needles, now without the slim protection of the flip flops. A small place on the bed had been cleared off, save a neatly folded stack of clothes with a pair of boots weighing it down. Ian shuffled over.

The outfit was disgustingly forward. Goomba had set out a white v-neck t-shirt and dark wash straight jeans, a jacket with light jean material for the front and back panels and grey cotton sleeves and umber tinted matte boots. Ian had never, and would never, put a v-neck t-shirt on his body. Ian dried himself off, parted his hair with his fingers.

Goomba had failed to provide underwear, which Ian suspected was on purpose.

Ian put on the jacket, zipped it up all the way. Pulled on the jeans, avoided the thought of what the last guy who wore them did in them. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on the boots.

Ian shuffled out of the bedroom, unsure, listing towards the wall like a kid new to ice skating.

There were more people in the living room than before. The guy Ian had noticed on his way into Goomba’s room, Macbook, was now on the loveseat, quiet and unreadable. Two others Ian didn’t recognize were having a decent conversation, crowded onto the couch next to Rebecca, who was straddling a third unknown person’s lap, tonguing his ear with uncomfortable intensity.

“Rebecca, you slut, you weren’t invited,” Goomba said, coming out of the kitchen with four shot glasses in one hand, an edgeless mirror in the other hand, and a bottle of Jose Cuervo under her arm. Rebecca didn’t seem to have heard Goomba.

Ian was still standing in the doorway, the boots too small for his feet. Macbook was staring at him. Ian was actively trying to ignore it.

“Rebecca, I’m serious. That’s disgusting.” Goomba continued, putting the glasses and mirror down on the coffee table. She started uncapping the Jose Cuervo, bending to pour the shots. Ian slid forward, hunching and grabbing Goomba’s upper arm.

“I thought we were going to go out,” Ian mumbled. The mirror on the coffee table reflected stainless razor blades.

“We are. Pre-game. It’s cheaper,” Goomba muttered back. She was looking at Rebecca, raised her voice.  “Are you serious? No- Rebecca-”

Goomba straightened, shoved the bottle of tequila into Ian’s arms, and sidestepped the coffee table. Rebecca was trying to undress her lover, much to the obvious annoyance of the guy next to her on the couch. Ian was in the middle of the room, holding the Jose Cuervo like a newborn baby.

Macbook got up from his chair, stepped forward, and took the liquor from Ian’s hands, leaning over to finish pouring the shots. Goomba was pushing Rebecca out of the room; Rebecca remained ostensibly silent, moving without resistance but also without pleasure. The man Rebecca had been straddling was flustered, adjusting himself, trying to save his dignity with a hard expression. He glared at the other two on the couch, crossing his arms. 

“You see the tits on that girl?” He asked, voice high and shaking. Ian heard Macbook chuckle under his breath. Goomba coerced Rebecca all the way back to her bedroom, kicking the clothes out of the way so she could shut the door.

Goomba turned back to the room, neutrally looking at the men on the couch.

The flustered man ran a thumb over his lips, leaned forward and slapped a small, white ziplock bag onto the coffee table. Macbook looked up at Ian, gauging his reaction.

“You’re lucky Rebecca didn’t gank that off you,” Goomba sniffed. “I’m sure she was trying.”

“How much for a line?” Macbook asked, still looking at Ian. It was the first time Ian had heard him speak, and his voice was warmly monotone.

“Quality blow like this? 25,” Flustered said, folding his tattooed hands. The other guys on the couch nodded curtly.

“For one line?” Goomba asked. “This shit used to be 15.”

“This shit’s better,” One of the other guys said. “Fucking worth the extra dough.”

Macbook held up another shot glass for Ian. Ian gladly took it, knocked it back.

“Macbook?”

“That’s fine,” he said, filling the glasses which had been emptied.

“Ian?” Goomba asked. Ian handed Macbook the empty glass, eyes wide on Goomba.

“Yeah?”

“Is that too much?”

“Uh…”

“Am I paying for yours?” she asked.

“I don’t have my wallet,” Ian said, then realized: “Or my cell phone, God fucking- Dammit.” He reached for another shot, appreciative of Goomba’s godlike foresight. Macbook met him halfway.

“Three lines,” Goomba said, grabbing her coat from where she’d thrown it and digging through the pockets. “Can I trust you not to skimp on me?”

Flustered was already measuring out their portions, scraping and tapping it out with the razor blade. The two others got up, both waddling towards the door. Ian noticed the guns tucked into the back of their jeans. 

“It’s always a pleasure doing business.” Flustered tossed the blade down on the table, stood up with his hand out. Goomba dropped a lump of crumpled dollars into his hands.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” Goomba asked sarcastically.

“Nah, gotta stay professional. The goonies here come at some decent price and the product ain’t cheap enough to be taking any free samplings.”

“Hm, maybe don’t let my roommate fuck you on the couch next time,” Goomba said. “Go for gold, you gorgeous professional.”

Flustered scooted out of the apartment with his head ducked.

The front door clicked shut. 

“What a fucking champ.” Goomba tossed back a shot, plopping down on the couch with a sigh. She was rolling up a dollar. Ian sat down on the floor next to the coffee table, his hand snaking towards another shot.

Goomba curved forward, putting a manicured finger over one nostril and inhaling through the rolled Washington. She uncoiled, blinking, her frizzy hair falling away from her face as she ran her knuckle under her nose. She handed off the dollar to Ian.

Ian hesitated, kneeling at the coffee table with the rolled dollar between his thumb and index finger. Macbook had joined Goomba on the couch, sat across from Ian. His eyes sharply followed Ian’s indecisive movements. Ian resented it, made eye contact with Macbook. Something pinged in his head, a familiarity Ian couldn’t quite put his finger on. Like thinking he recognized someone in a crowd. He turned his attention to the illegal narcotics in front of him. He just had to get it over with.

Ian leaned forward, mimicking what he’d seen Uma Thurman do on Quentin Tarantino movies. 

The initial feeling was - frankly - unpleasant. He scrunched his face, rubbing his nose and dropping the dollar bill onto the table. His head was screwed on crooked, strangely cross-wired to his body. The ceiling, blown out from above him. His eyes watered like he needed to sneeze.

“I don’t think your guy’s done the all-American drug before,” Macbook said. He unceremoniously snorted the last line, wiping the residue with his forefinger and running it across his teeth. Goomba laughed, slapping Macbook’s knee before getting up from the couch. She picked up the mirror and blade, sashayed around the coffee table, lightly kicking Ian as she passed.

“You okay?” she asked casually, walking into the kitchen before finding out how Ian responded.

Macbook stood up, rounded the table and joined Ian on the floor. Ian was spaced out, sitting Indian-style, staring at the last shot of tequila. Macbook picked it up, drank it.

He put a hand on Ian’s leg. Ian looked over at him. Macbook was overtly intruding on his personal space.

“I only fuck after I’ve been properly wined and dined,” Ian said in a low voice.

“Does coke count as ‘dine?’ Because I think I already covered the ‘wine’ with the tequila.”

“That was a joke, faggot.” Ian kept eye contact with him, despite the unconvincing tone in his voice. 

“Hey, babe,” Macbook called, his unchallenged hand still on Ian’s knee. “Where were we thinking of going?”

“Uhhh,” Goomba came out of the kitchen, running a finger under her eye. “I was thinking that one place in the basement with the popcorn ceiling.”

“What? Why?”

“Because they don't care if we’re high.” Goomba put on her coat. Macbook gave Ian’s knee a squeeze before getting up from the floor. He offered Ian a hand up. Ian ignored it, getting to his feet with little trouble. Surprisingly, he felt less drunk than he thought he would. Actually, he felt pretty good. Clear. Sharp. He looked down at the shorter Macbook. Macbook wet his lips.

“I don’t have an I.D. on me,” Ian said, eyes shifting to Goomba. Goomba laughed.

“You don’t need an I.D. to get into a basement.” Goomba clasped Ian’s hand, walking towards the door. Ian put his other hand in his jacket pocket. Macbook followed close behind.

 

-

 

They jumped fences like regular felons, hoofing across pot-holed backlots, garbage melting into the cracks of the buildings. Goomba was a step ahead, her hair bouncing behind her. Ian stayed in silent stride with Macbook.

A building, an abandoned apartment complex, had a stairway stuck directly against the back which led to the popcorn ceiling basement. The stairway was a concrete hole, with concrete steps, metal railings clinging to the walls plunging their way downwards. Outside the subterranean door which lead to a dark hallway, a dark woman with a blunt between her lips tapped at her iPhone, the glow of the screen turning her face blue. Goomba patted her on the head as they passed. The woman didn’t look up from her phone, but kissed the air, blunt tilting.

The dark hallway led into the long, cave-like space of the inner basement through an open doorway. The air was cut with red and purple lights and thrumming with bass-heavy music. Bodies crushed towards the rigged stage on the opposite side of the room, flashes of skin and hands in the air, sweat and grind and the DJ cooly ignoring the pulsing crowd in favor of his equipment. Along the walls were various doors, some open, some closed, people milling in and out. The smell of weed and beer was overwhelming, mixing in the body heat.

Goomba gripped Macbook’s hand, Macbook took Ian’s hand. Goomba cut into the crowd, tugging them along behind her. The crowd parted lazily, unaffected by the intrusion. 

They squeezed between naked backs and around jutting elbows. Ian pressed close to Macbook, leaned into him. His body tremored with the music, his chest vibrating, teeth buzzing. Macbook smelled like oranges.

They didn’t make it all the way to the front. 

In the middle of the sea of people, they stopped. Within anonymity, herd mentality, and the mixture of tequila and narcotics in their system, it was easy to follow the dancing of the crowd, pulsating to the beat under the blinding lights. Ian was stuck in his own head, unable to block out all of the convulsive movements around him, the epileptic lights overloading his senses. Ian was pressed against Macbook’s back, his hands clinging to Macbook’s waist to keep himself balanced.

Macbook misunderstood, turned and put his hands on Ian’s hips. Ian looked down at him, his glasses catching the violet glare of a nearby LED light. Macbook pulled their hips flush. Other bodies bumped into them, swaying them. Macbook leaned up, on his toes, his lips nearing Ian’s ear.

Ian didn’t hear what Macbook said before he dragged his lips over his ear lobe. Ian shivered, his hands reflexively gripping Macbook’s hips. Macbook took this as an invitation to continue, mouth trailing down Ian’s jaw before covering Ian’s mouth.

If it was easy to get into the crowd, it was even easier to leave it.

Ian pushed Macbook through the door of a single toilet bathroom. Macbook’s back hit the farthest wall as he whimpered into Ian’s mouth, lips wet with spit and hands palming Ian’s ass. Ian’s jacket had been unzipped, leaving his sweat-beaded torso open to the balmy air. His hands ran across the hard surfaces of Macbook’s body, down the plain of Macbook’s hairy stomach and over the jut of his hip-bone. Macbook bucked his hips forward, his insistence rigid. Ian’s hands curiously slid into the front of Macbook’s jeans. Macbook turned his head, groaning as Ian’s fingers cupped him through his underwear. Ian leaned away, looked down at the man pressed against the wall.

He was somehow surprised he wasn’t looking down at George. He blinked, realizing his brain had made a switch somewhere between the dancefloor and the bathroom. It was like waking up from a dream, realizing his unquestioned reality was wrong. 

“That- uh- hurts-” Macbook moaned. “Unzip-” Ian’s hand lingered, wedged tightly between the front of Macbook’s jeans and his hard-on. Macbook squirmed. Ian distractedly pulled his hand free, putting arms on the wall on either side of Macbook, eyes glassy. Macbook was trying to undo his jeans, pressed kisses to Ian’s cold cheek, pulling their bodies flush again. Macbook rolled his hips against Ian’s thigh.

Ian untangled himself, stumbling backwards. He stared at Macbook, who was disheveled, jean’s unzipped and pitching a tent through his thin cotton boxers. Ian didn’t even know this guy’s real name.

“Sorry,” Ian mumbled, the muted sound of dance music whispering through the closed door. Macbook looked away from him, embarrassed.

Ian turned and fled from the bathroom, skirted through the crowd directly outside it. He crossed the basement in a zig-zagging fury, needing to leave but forgetting how they’d got in. He followed the faint red light of an exit sign hanging above a door with cardboard over the port windows. Ian shoved the industrial door open, flooding part of the basement with the stale light that was on the other side. A few nearby party-goers heckled the unwanted illumination. He slipped into the white hallway quick, jamming the door shut behind him. 

He leaned against the wall, stared wide-eyed at the floor, heart pounding. The reality of the short evening was crashing down on him as he stood under the crackling fluorescent lights. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, feeling drunker by the second. Was the alcohol somehow catching back up to him? He didn’t like the lack of control, the ebb and flow of his balance.

He wanted to go home. He looked up.

On the other side of the hall, a retractable gate closed off a dark, leaching staircase. At the end of the narrow corridor was another door. Ian shuffled over to it, tried the knob. It turned.

Ian was met with cement stairs that fed out onto the sidewalk in front of the apartment complex. He climbed the stairs, wavered in the dark night, the crescent moon giving off little light and the streetlamps struggled. The cool air chilled him. He zipped up his jacket.

He didn’t have his phone, his wallet, or any idea where he was. He started walking, discerning through the glow of the horizon where the main street might be. Dark alleyways gaped on either side of him, the rumbling sound of cars echoing through the deserted streets. The buildings curled into the air, unbelievably tall against the inky, starless sky. Ian crossed his arms, his feet beginning to hurt from the unfitting boots. His breath was loud in his ears; reality bent around him, a pinpoint of existence in a swamp of unknown intent.

He passed under a looming overpass, the wind roaring around him. Pillars stood like guards, holding up the street above them. 

Working his absent-minded way through the streets, he came to the main road. It was the same avenue he and George had walked down some three nights before. Ian’s throat constricted, still standing on the corner of the dark pavement he’d just walked down and the lit street criss-crossed with vaguely familiar weary faces.

He joined the flow, walking with his head ducked. Stores on either side of him were in the process of closing for the night. Underpaid workers were cleaning the tables, sweeping dirt out the door and onto the steps of the businesses with ratty plastic brooms, closing the register. They watched the passing rabble, the rabble Ian was now a part of, with leery eyes and keys in their fists.

Ian turned down another familiar road, boots scuffing against the sidewalk.


	10. Miike Snow

Ian was standing in front of George’s apartment door at 3 in the morning. He had exactly five articles of clothing on him: his glasses, a jacket, jeans, and two boots. Nothing in his pockets. And no choice but to knock on the door.

The knock sounded very loud in the dark chilly quiet of the hallway. Ian waited, sobered, anxious, tired. His mind was a mush of subjects and predicates struggling to form coherent thoughts. He’d remember parts of the night in canon, situations stacking and restacking, unable to discern where to start pulling any of this apart. Ian shook.

Unbidden, the apartment door opened. George stood in the doorway, faintly backlit by the lamplight of the apartment. He appraised Ian’s tense air and foreign attire, a quick flick of the eyes. He looked up at Ian, worried.

Ian opened his mouth to explain, but was overwhelmed with absurd feelings of nostalgia. George, in an over-sized t-shirt and joggers, seemed so natural and simple, invitingly warm. Instead of trying to translate the nonsensical jumble of words in his head, Ian pressed frantic lips to George’s, clutching his face, fingers making indents in his soft cheeks, uncaring of the butterfly bandages. George’s eyes fell closed, hands resting on Ian’s waist. Ian pushed them both back through the door and into the apartment, making embarrassingly desperate noises.

Maybe he wasn’t as sober as he thought. 

Ian pushed George against the nearest wall with a thump, tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He lifted George’s long shirt, cupped George’s half-hard dick through his pants. George jumped, inhaling sharply through his nose. His hands gripped Ian’s waist, but his lips stayed gentle and pliant, humming into Ian’s mouth. Ian pressed his hand down, felt George’s body resist the pressure.

George broke away long enough to give Ian a mixed look. Ian fought the rising satisfaction of making George look needy. He took his lips again, savoring the way George tried to restrain himself. George broke away again, mouth pressed to Ian’s cheek.

“I don’t under-” George sucked in air through his teeth as Ian rubbed George through his joggers, his hand stroking. “I don’t understand- ah- what- ha-”

George’s legs were spread, knees bent, his hands curled into Ian’s chest. Ian kissed the edge of George’s mouth, concentrating on the movement below his waist. He attempted to wrap his fingers around the hard line. George’s hips rocked, his breath hot on Ian’s cheek, before he grabbed Ian’s wrist, pulled his hand away from his prick. 

“Ian. Stop. Holy shit. Fuck.” George took a balancing breath. Ian flexed his hand. The knuckles ached. “I’m not going to ask what happened. I probably don’t want to know... But I- uh- are you- okay?” 

Ian licked his lips. He looked George in the eye and nodded, a quick, curt movement. 

George looked Ian up and down, biting his lip and tilting his head. 

“Then we don’t have to do this quick.” He unzipped Ian’s jacket, grabbed two fistfulls of material and pulled him into a quick kiss. “You don’t have to hand-fuck me through my joggers on the hallway wall. What are we, fourteen?”

“Were you gonna cream your shorts, faggot?” Ian asked in a low voice.

“Probably,” George breathed before shoving Ian away and walking towards the hallway. Ian followed, watching George move with increasing interest. He allowed himself to see more, to notice the way his shirt moved over his shoulder blades, his dark hair bobbing, his long fingers as he turned the knob to his own bedroom. George looked at Ian over his shoulder, thick lips pressed together and expression soft, hair falling across his black eyebrows and into his swart irises, as the bedroom door swung open. Ian caught George’s turning face, thumbs stroking, pulling him into a soft kiss.

Their lips were slow, deliberate, tasting. Ian tugged at George’s bottom lip, tracing the curve of his mouth with his tongue. George’s lips were parted, his breath mixing with Ian’s as his hand held the back of Ian’s head. George briefly pressed his lips over Ian’s, before tilting his head and leisurely brushing his open mouth over Ian’s, flicking his tongue across Ian’s top lip. Ian impatiently pulled George flush, sealing his mouth with his own, eliciting a startled moan.

They drifted into the bedroom, hands on each other’s hips; crossed the room, silhouetted against the window, gauzy curtains filtering the moonlight blue. The bed was pushed against the farthest wall, the comforter an unmade mess of cotton peaks. George extricated himself from Ian, grinning devilishly as he tossed the comforter off the foot of the bed. Ian stood where he was left. George patted the sheets.

Ian sat down, gratefully unlaced the too-small boots, as George padded over to his dresser drawers. He jiggled the first drawer open, loose items rumbling against the wood.

“You ever fuck a girl in the ass before, Ian?” George asked blandly. Ian felt like he could throw up his heart.

“Yeah.” George turned, in his hands a condom and a bottle of lube. “Jesus Christ.”

“Lay down.” Ian did as instructed.

George sauntered over to the bed, making over-dramatic bedroom eyes; tossed the lube and the condom on the sheets next to Ian, peeled his t-shirt off with one hand, and unceremoniously climbed on top of him, his knees on either side of Ian’s hips. He leaned down and kissed Ian wetly, pressing his hips forward. He dragged a hand from Ian’s cheek down his neck and over his chest, pinching one of his nipples. Ian yelped into George’s mouth, alarmed. George pulled away to see Ian’s expression.

“It’s kinda hot thinking about you fucking this mystery girl in the ass. How’d you do it?” George asked, leaning down and replacing his pinching fingers with his wandering mouth. Ian suppressed a sigh as George’s tongue circled his nipple.

“I- uh- fucked her from behind.” Ian’s hard-on was jammed uncomfortably against the fly of his jeans.

“Do you want to fuck me from behind?” George asked conversationally, looking up at Ian with a chaotic glimmer in his eye. Ian shook his head. He guided George forward, their lips meeting comfortably. 

Ian carefully rolled them on the full sized mattress so he was on top, George spread beneath him. He shrugged off his jacket before curving forward, the skin of their naked torsos pressing as Ian licked into George’s mouth. He was met with George’s tongue, caressing. Small noises hummed into the air. George’s hands tucked themselves between their bodies, fumbled with the fly of Ian’s jeans. Ian lifted himself slightly, without disconnecting their lips, allowing George’s hands more room. Ian’s fingers pushed down on George’s waistband, gliding across soft skin. Their lips parted with a click as Ian dragged George’s joggers off his hips. George groaned, annoyed, kicking off the pant legs one at a time. Ian’s jeans were still clinging to his hips as he hooked thumbs under the elastic of George’s underwear. 

Ian pulled George’s boxer-briefs down in similar fashion, leaving George naked underneath him. Ian’s eyes raked down his body, was absolutely devastated by the collage of memories suturing themselves together into the complete picture. Ian rushed George’s mouth, frenziedly covering it, their bodies slotting together. George slid his hands under Ian’s jeans, pushed them down, fingers clutching the bare skin of Ian’s ass. Ian’s arousal, freed of the jeans, pressed into George’s hip; George gasped around Ian’s tongue. George’s own dick was wedged between their bodies, and he was grinding upwards, his hands trying to guide Ian’s hips.

Ian released George’s red mouth, sat back, searching for the lube and condom with blind hands. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from George’s confidently open expression; this was a lot different than last time.

Last time. Ian felt a pang of embarrassment that he was definitely aiming to fuck away.

He clicked the lid of the lube open, put an ample amount on the tips of the first two fingers of his right hand, ignoring the dark bruises on his knuckles. He hooked his left hand under George’s knee, pulling it up and splaying his legs, as his fingers slid down George’s taut taint and circled around his entrance. Ian looked from his hand to George’s pinched expression. He eased one finger in to the first knuckle, gauging the change in George’s face, the line between his eyebrows and the rouge in his cheeks. Ian added his second finger to the first knuckle; George’s lips parted, his hands gripping the sheets. Ian nudged further into him, his thumb pressed into his thigh. George took a deep breath, his eyes falling closed; Ian could feel him trying to relax. He kissed George’s knee, eyes fixed on George’s shifting grimace.

“Do you actually like this?” Ian asked earnestly, his lips still pressed against George’s knee. George opened his eyes, peered up at Ian. He moved his hips downward, taking Ian’s fingers deeper.

“I’d like it if you’d go faster,” George groaned. “Stop acting like a faggot.”

Ian spread his fingers, sliding them out and squeezing them back in. George moaned, shifting and fidgeting. Ian slid them back out, then pressed in, adding a third finger.

“God, just fuck me,” George complained, his hand wrapping around his own dick. “This shit’s fucking tedious.”

“Calm your tits,” Ian said, his fingers slipping out of George. He applied another dab of lube to his fingers, worked them back in. George bucked his hips down on them, gritting his teeth. Ian was actively ignoring his own pleasure, his own throbbing dick pressed against the bottom of George’s thigh. The sight of George losing himself was better than kissing him, left him drunk with power.

“Ian, please,” George sighed, his hand lazily stroking himself. Ian hadn’t expected George to beg, but it definitely worked. Ian pulled his fingers out, let go of George’s knee, and picked up the condom. George huffed at the sound of the wrapper crinkling. “Just- skip the condom.”

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Ian,” George said. Ian’s head swam as he smeared the remaining lube on his twitching dick and lined himself up with George’s worked hole, his other hand back to holding George’s knee.

This was why he didn’t want to fuck George from behind. Ian watched George’s wrecked expression as he thrust his tip in, George’s back arching, body tensing. He whined, shoulders shaking. Ian’s lips parted, as he thrusted in a little farther.

A string of unintelligible Japanese ground out of George’s lips, gasping, as his hands left his dick and grabbed Ian’s ass, fingers denting into the soft skin. Ian didn’t think George could’ve made it any harder not to immediately cum, but Ian found himself too close to the edge for how little George had gotten. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to think about how tight and warm George was around him, started doing random time zone math to distract himself.

George was guiding Ian’s hips forward, pulling him closer, thrust down, taking Ian in almost to the hilt.

“God fucking dammit,” Ian groaned, eyes squeezed shut again, quivering, the hand on George’s knee a vice. George was gasping, his breath leaving him in hot pants. One of his hands left Ian’s ass, reached up to caress Ian’s cheek. Ian’s eyes opened, unfocused, cheeks warm and dewy. He looked down into George’s searching eyes. George was shuddering, but his hips were lurching. He nodded, gripping Ian’s ass.

Ian thrust his hips, keening at the pressure on his member. He tried to follow George’s rhythm, the twitch of George’s hips and the pull of his hand. He ducked his head, pressed his forehead to George’s. Their panting breath mixed in the intimate space between them; George’s dick was pressed between their stomachs. George’s hand slid from Ian’s face to the back of Ian’s head, fingers scratching through his hair.

“Ian-” George sighed, something between a warning and a prayer. He came, dick pulsing against Ian’s stomach, his body tensed, tightening around Ian. Ian opened his eyes, stared as George fell apart, keeping George’s rhythm. He let go, allowing the heat in his stomach to overcome his control, coming in George with a groan.

They shuddered, bodies slick with sweat in the humid quiet of the dark room. George rolled his body against Ian’s, thighs brushing against his sides, leaned his chin forward to sweep his part lips over Ian’s. Ian huffed a half-hearted laugh, his nose bumping into George’s.

“What the fuck,” Ian breathed. George seemed to agree with the feeling, hands resting loosely on Ian’s hips.

Ian slipped his flaccid dick out of George, both sighing at the retreat. Ian flopped over, laying on his back, shoulder to shoulder next to George, their legs still crossing on the somewhat cramped bed. Ian cleared his throat, licked the sweat and spit off his top lip.

They were both going to get very sticky very quickly. Ian ran his hand over his face, his fingers combing through his hair, turned his head to peer at George. George slowly turned his head to look back. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been a one time deal, and they were both to blame. They acknowledged that to each other with worried expressions, turning back to stare at the ceiling.

“What the fuck,” Ian said, a different meaning to the earlier exclamation. George seemed to agree again, covering his face with his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH.
> 
> Edit: So, this particular update is pretty long and scarcely edited, so like... take it with a grain of salt. I have about ten million papers to write, but I wanted to post this somewhat on time, so it's a rush job tbh. If you feel like its a little out of control, its because it is and THAT'S because I'm out of control, as a person. I hope you still enjoyed it, because, uh, I mean... I like it still, even though I wish I had more free time to really work on the pacing. Idk.
> 
> ALSO I'm sorry if the OCs are throwing u off lmao I have a problem and its called being a piece of shit who adds a bunch of OCs to her fanfics willy-nilly because I have no self-control. (How unprofessional of me.)


	11. The Strumbellas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've got more fan art to admire <33 This one's by a ketchup themed commenter?? 
> 
> Link: http://orig06.deviantart.net/b012/f/2016/312/b/5/alien_by_bordt-danstq9.png
> 
> Very cool, really nice style, 11/10. Honestly, it's stuff like this that keeps me going during these trying times. u-u
> 
> Sorry that this is a little late. It's because I couldn't work on it until, like, yesterday. So this was written in like a day. Excuse any errors aha It's nerve wracking as shit posting this for some reason. I just love you guys a lot. Omg. I love every single one of you that's ever read this thing. I'd kiss each and every one of you if given the opportunity. And I just want to make yall proud to be a part of this. y-y

 

Ian was thinking about the vodka underneath the bed in the other room as he laid on his back, showered and stock still, wedged between the wall and George under the duvet. His glasses had been left on the sink in the bathroom; Ian couldn’t see past the foot of the bed. George teetered on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette, eyes unfocused. Smoke drifted towards the ceiling, caught the lamp light on its coils.

They’d showered together, but it’d been a weird locker-room experience, with little touching and little conversation, just taking turns under the weak water pressure in the cramped, yellowy space. Ian had left the shower first, hesitated in the hallway, standing in front of George’s open bedroom door, trying to decide if he was obligated to spend the night in George’s room or if he was supposed to shamefully slither back to his designated sleeping area. George had closed the bathroom door behind him as he’d left, mentioned something about getting another pillow for the bed as he shuffled down the hallway. Ian felt like he said something back, but he couldn’t remember what it was.

Neither of them were asleep, and both of them knew the other was silently awake.

Ian was exhausted. His eyes burned and his bones ached. If he’d gone back to his room, he would definitely be asleep by now. Mentally listing all the shit he’d pulled in the last few days, he wouldn’t blame his body for shutting down completely. But he couldn’t turn off the nagging feeling that he still needed to say something. It kept yanking him back from the edge of unconsciousness, jerking him awake when his blurry vision ebbed. 

Moreover, he felt like George wanted him to say something.

George, who was propped up against the wall and flicking ashes into an empty Top Ramen cup on the side table, seemed completely awake, his movements controlled. Ian had to look up from where he laid to see his face. The smell of cigarettes filled the room, reminded Ian of cold black coffee and cough drops.

“It’s a wonder the smoking doesn’t get you kicked out,” Ian finally murmured, his eyes closed. George took a drag, the smoke pouring from his lips.

“I’ve done worse shit in this room. Louder shit. Ya boy don’t associate with no snitches.” George said mildly. Ian laughed a breath out of his nose. He was loopy from exhaustion, but he was too exhausted to care.

“You’ve, uh, had… men back in your room before?” Ian asked.

“A gentleman should never ask his lady how many men she’s fucked.” George stated with an uppity air.

“A few?” Ian ventured.

“Ian. Analyze the contextual clues.” George said, chuckling.

“What? More than a few?”

“Dude.”

“You better not have given me aids,” Ian joked softly, eyes still closed, idiotically turning his head to nudge his nose into George’s arm. 

“I don’t have aids,” George said in the same mild tone.

“How do you know?”

“Condoms and regular testing,” George responded, tapping ash. “Like a good little gay.”

“You schedule check-ups?”

“No… I go to the clinic,” George said vaguely. “Don’t need aids added to my, uh... laundry list of health problems.”

“What’s wrong?” Ian asked, trying to sound casual, but a twinge of anxiety was twisting his guts. His eyes had fallen open, his forehead pressing into George’s arm. George didn’t respond. “Has this got something to do with the medication?”

“Ian, you’re tired and probably still high on whatever Goomba had you on,” George said coolly. 

“I’m serious.” Ian’s voice had turned stern and flat. He sat up with effort so he could look down at George. The stump of the nearly spent cigarette dangled loosely between George’s fingers. “What’s up with the medication?”

“Nothing. It’s not a big deal.”

“I think it _ is  _ a big deal.”

“Ian. It’s fine. Let’s drop it.”

“No, it’s not fine. What’s going on?”

“It’s none of your business,” George snapped. He glared up at Ian. Ian didn’t move, his expression stony. A prolonged silence. Ash fell onto the comforter. Ian looked away first, face falling indifferent.

“You know what? You’re right.” Ian slid out of the bed, scooting off the foot of the bed, all in his boxers. George watched him, unmoved. “This  _ isn’t _ my problem. This is  _ your _ problem. If you want to keep  _ fucking _ around, and being a  _ dick _ about it, that’s  _ your  _ problem.”

“I said it  _ wasn’t  _ a problem, Ian. Chill out.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.” Ian was standing at the foot of the bed, looking down at George. George fiddled with the cigarette, annoyed. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You mean, besides the occasional seizure? It’d probably be easier to tell you what’s right at this point,” George joked. “It’s  _ fine _ . I’ve got it under control.”

“So the medication...?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then  _ uncomplicate it, _ faggot.” George looked at Ian through his eyelashes, like he didn’t want to see him.

“I don’t  _ take _ my medication anymore,” George said, aiming at matter-of-fact, but visibly trying to hide a wince. Ian felt the blood drain from his face. It was so different hearing George say it out loud, confirming it.

“Why? Why would you do that?” George was nervously looking at him; Ian probably looked dangerous. “George?”

“It’s not like-” George tried to keep his voice calm to no avail. “It’s not like I’m trying to- to kill myself or some shit-”

“Then what? What’re you trying to do?” 

“I just-” George couldn’t finish the sentence, sighed loudly, his leg bouncing under the sheets. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, flighty.

“ _You just_ what?” Ian kept his arms firmly to his sides. “Because, right now, it sounds like you’re either actually suicidal or the _dumbest_ _kid_ to ever be suicidal on accident.”

“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.” George visibly struggled; the cigarette had burned to the filter. “I just can’t fuck with any of this chemical bullshit right now. I’ve got too much to deal with.  _ Fuck, Ian, _ it’s not like the meds magically fixed anything; they weren’t helping. And the side effects  _ sucked _ . I can try to go back on them when I have more free-time to figure it out. To get the right dosage or prescription or whatever. But right now, I’m just… too busy for this shit.”

“That’s fucking retarded. You’re at risk for _seizures?_ ” Ian asked dubiously, stifling an inappropriate laugh. George flinched, looking up with dark eyes. “Look, you know what? I can’t _fix this_. Goomba can’t fix this. Max can’t fix this. Your fucking _mom_ can’t _fucking_ fix this. The only one who can fix this is _you_ , and you’re apparently _fucking retarded_ , so _good luck_ _with that._ ”

Ian started towards the door, his fists clenched. Maybe he’d go spend the night at Goomba’s; maybe he’d spend the rest of the week at Goomba’s. He was too pissed off, too tired, to remember why he’d come back at all, what’d fucking possessed him to do all this gay shit. He figured he’d officially gotten it out of his system.

“Ian, wait-” George’s voice was defenseless. Ian looked back, his hand firmly gripping the door knob. George was up from the bed, standing, mid-stride, in the middle of the room. His expression betrayed him, open and fearful. He was trembling, his eyes wide and dry. “I-  _ I can’t _ fix this. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Ian’s stomach dropped, but he tried not to let it show on his face. The air between them was like a vacuum, stark and empty, catching their breath and holding them in place. 

“I can’t sleep,” George whispered, chin quivering. He looked away, trying to regain some kind of composure. His throat worked against him. “I can’t- Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just-”

“Goddammit, George,” Ian muttered. He let go of the door, stepped forward to wrap his arms around the shorter man, enfolding him against his body. George clung to him, buried his face in Ian’s chest, his breath warm against Ian’s skin. Ian stared solemnly forward, running his hand through George’s hair and resting his chin on the top of his head. He didn’t know what he was doing, still didn’t know how he was supposed to responsibly handle any of this, still wanted to leave, still wanted to avoid it. “This is really fucked up.”

“I know.” George’s voice was muffled by Ian’s chest.

“Are all those medications even prescribed to you?” George laughed low.

“No, actually,” George admitted, attempting to hide his face even more. “Does that make it better or worse?”

“I don’t know,” Ian breathed. “I don’t know.”

Ian mindlessly stroked George’s back, unsure of where to go from there. He still didn’t completely understand what was going on, but he definitely didn’t want to talk about it anymore. The shot of adrenaline from before was rapidly wearing off, leaving him dizzily tired. 

Ian shepherded the listless George back to the bed, pulling the blanket up and settling them under it without leaving contact. George rested his head on Ian’s chest, curled himself against Ian’s body under the comfortable warmth of the duvet. Ian took George’s hand, lacing their fingers together, sighed.

“Sorry,” George whispered.

“Stop fucking apologizing. It doesn’t do anything,” Ian said softly. He closed his eyes, drained. He tried to just enjoy the feel of George’s skin casually touching his, the way George’s stubbly cheek pressed against his chest. Tried not to think about the mess he’d gotten himself into. Tried not to think about George as something broken, as something needing to be fixed. Fought the urge to keep talking, to start delineating a plan of action, a way he could see George getting better. Refused to get his hopes up.

Ian was asleep before George was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally typed out this really long and really fucked up thing about politics because I couldn’t get myself to start writing this chapter because I was muddled down with all this shit but I deleted that. I still feel like I should say something because it’s just… it’s been a long week and no one’s listening to each other. So I’m saying this all to you. Sorry.
> 
> For those of you who don’t know, American presidential elections aren’t actually democratic. Each state is delegated a certain number of representatives for the “electoral college” based on their population, with a minimum of 2 per state. Whoever wins the popular vote in the state, “gets the delegates” which basically means the delegates for that state vote for the president that won in their state. (In some states, the delegates can vote for whoever they want, despite the popular vote of their specific state, which is what Tumblr wants to use to get Hillary into office. This wouldn’t really be a good idea for the delegates though, because they’d be pissing off their voting population which would make it difficult for them to get re-elected in their state.) So a candidate can win the /national/ popular vote and still lose because the other candidate got more states. This is the nature of the electoral college. I know a lot of people are critical of it, but as a person living in Missouri, my vote wouldn’t mean a damn thing if it weren’t for the electoral college. If my state didn’t have electoral votes to hand out, federal politicians wouldn’t give a single fuck about Missourian issues. They’d just work to please the high density areas and completely ignore everyone else. (And, like, honestly?? Fuck the big cities. Fuck New York and San Francisco and Los Angeles and all them. Like fuck the coasts. You know the entire middle of the country is called “fly-over country” because rich fucks fly over it to get from one coast to the other? "There's nothing to do in the Midwest!" Fucking hate that shit. It's untrue as fuck.) 
> 
> But we’ve gotten to the point that if anything swings the way of the “opposing party,” it’s literally the end of the world, your life is in danger, the entire country is against you. Jesus Christ, everyone’s being so fucking dramatic. I saw some bullshit that was like, “I walk outside and wonder, was it you? Did you vote for Trump? Why do you hate me? I’m scared and also actively weeping.” Okay buddy maybe chill. And our politicians don’t give a damn that their constant fear-mongering is actually inciting unneeded panic. And I’m trying to wrap my head around how stupid it is, blaming a big population of America instead of the institutions who couldn’t quality-control their fucking nominations. What the FUCK were Hillary and Trump doing on the ticket in the first place?
> 
> Anyway, there’s a part of me that’s disgusted that Trump’s the next president, and then another part that understands why he was elected. Like there’s a part of me that’s actually kinda glad Trump was voted in. Fuck making good decisions, let’s just make a bunch of wild decisions until we figure this shit out because it’s broken as fuck. Maybe if we experience real uncertainty, we’ll stop blindly attacking each other (like our government purposely encourages us to) and actually compromise.
> 
> EDIT: lmao please ignore me that didnt make any sense.


	12. Mogwai

Ian woke with a start, a foreign heat pressed against his side, a foreign hand sliding down his stomach under the blanket. Moist breath on his shoulder; stubble rough on his skin. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all, that he’d just been thinking intently about something complicated, but the thoughts had flitted out of grasp- The hand was now wrapped around his morning wood over his boxers. Ian sighed at the touch, still not completely awake. He deliriously tried to remember what he’d been dreaming about, but he was somehow unable to focus with fingers wrapped around his dick.

“George-” Ian chastised drowsily, eyes still closed. “I’m trying to- hah- sleep.”

“Mhm,” George hummed in understanding, still lazily caressing. He was watching Ian’s reaction, pushing Ian’s underwear off his hips. His fingers wrapped around Ian’s shaft, his thumb swiping across the slick tip. Ian groaned, a completely unchecked noise, his hips lamely bucking into George’s hand. George leaned up and smothered Ian’s mouth with his; propped himself up and insistently stroked Ian under the duvet. Ian panted against George’s lips, hand reaching up to run fingers through George’s ridiculous hair, his bruised knuckles carding through the dark tangles. George tilted his head, just far enough to look down at Ian’s strained expression. His fingers tightened around Ian’s cock.

“You look kinda gay right now,” George muttered. 

“ _ You _ look  _ fucking _ -” Ian started, his words cut off by a twist of George’s wrist. Ian whined, pulled George’s hair, tugging their foreheads together.

“I didn’t quite catch that last part,” George said. Ian glared up at him, cheeks ruddy and lips parted. He tilted his head forward, agitatedly recapturing George’s lips. George breathed a laugh through his nose, his stroke rhythmically steady even as Ian licked into his mouth. Annoyed, Ian bit George’s lip, teeth grazing. George made a noise in the back of his throat, his body hugging against Ian’s side. Ian’s hand slid from George’s hair to George’s chest, fingers brushing against his nipple before pinching it hard.

George gasped, his hand stalling on Ian’s dick. He was staring, dark irised, at Ian, gnawing on his spit-wet lower lip as Ian languidly twisted the sensitive skin between his fingers; George’s hips grinded into Ian’s hipbone, his prick evident through his boxer-briefs. Ian grinned, self-satisfied, hips thrusting as to not lose the stunted friction.

George abruptly untangled himself, hand leaving Ian’s cock as he pulled away from Ian’s grasp. Ian began to protest, his face flushed and his mouth fumbling. George leaned off the foot of the bed, retrieving the lube bottle that had fallen there last night and holding it up. Ian’s brain went to mush as he pitched the comforter off his legs, his dick hanging out of his underwear; he probably looked ridiculous. George peeled off his own boxer-briefs and crawled on top of Ian, straddling his lap with the lube bottle in hand. He popped the top and squirted a decent amount into his palm. Ian watched, his fingers denting the skin of George’s hairy thighs, as George curled his fingers around his own straining dick with a breathy moan. He pumped himself slow, his hips twitching and knees sliding against the sheets, slicking his member with lube. George made dark eye-contact with the jittery Ian as he shifted, lining up their stiff dicks and wrapping his slippery hand around the tips of both, slowly stroking down.

“Oh shit,” Ian sighed, back arching and hips rolling forward. George groaned, his head canted, as he worked them both, hand gliding easily over the taut, slick skin. He visibly struggled to stroke slow, his stomach muscles fluttering. 

Pressed directly against George’s, it was obvious Ian’s dick was slightly bigger, which he would’ve gladly pointed out if he hadn’t been violently flustered by the hard line rubbing against his cock. 

George groaned, frustrated.

“You’re- fucking- lasting too long,” George stammered, losing his deliberate pace and jerking them to a sporadically faster beat. Ian grit his teeth. “I thought this was- hah- was going to be quick.”

“I thought- ah, fuck- I thought I had a virgin’s- mm- virgin’s stamina,” Ian retorted sarcastically as he rocked into George’s weight, hands like vices on George’s thighs.

“Dude, shut the fuck up,” George sighed, exasperated. “Fuck.”

George came, his dick pulsing against Ian’s, singing incoherent curses through parted lips. George’s cum wet Ian’s tip, dripped onto Ian’s stomach. Ian felt like it was probably one of the most debauched things he would ever see/feel/hear in his lifetime.

George stroked them both through his orgasm, eyes half-lidded as he watched Ian squirm. Ian squeezed his eyes shut, felt vaguely self-conscious as he climaxed, his bobbing erection still pressed against George’s finished cock. George lazily caressed him.

Ian opened his eyes, panting, to watch George bring his own lube and jizz covered hand to his mouth and run his tongue across the skin.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Ian breathed, losing his grip on George’s thighs and scrubbing the remaining sleep from his face. George laughed, still licking his fingers. “There’s fucking lube on there.”

“This shit’s edible,” George slurred around his finger. “How else am I supposed to eat ass?”

“You’re fucking disgusting.” Ian pushed the amused George off his lap and squinted at the digital clock on the nightstand. It read 9:32 am. “It’s still morning?”

“Yeah? What a way to wake up,” George said nonchalantly, stretching. Ian really shouldn’t be surprised; most people wake up in the morning hours, he just literally hadn’t since he’d gotten to New York and now the day ahead felt very long. George got up from the bed, stark naked, shuffled around the room to grab a random shirt and pants. “I’m gonna go take a shower.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Ian said, unthinking. George grinned at Ian before walking out the bedroom door.

Ian laid in silence for a moment, trying to gather the strength to get up, but instead drifted in thought.

The events of the night before were burning a hole in Ian’s brain, the discussion more so than the sex (which was genuinely frightening to acknowledge). Being honest with himself, Ian realized he hadn’t done anything but excuse himself from having to deal with George’s problems, which was the opposite of what he was supposed to do; and there was something more about it that was sitting wrong, something about the way George had looked at him before cantering off to the bathroom. Like Ian was a fragile reality. Which didn’t make any fucking sense. Ian sighed heavily, getting the feeling that he’d probably screwed something up like he thought he would.

Ian got up, stepping out of the boxers that had been hanging on his thighs. The sound of the shower could be heard through the open bedroom door. Ian just wanted to get the greasy lube off.

 

-

George’s hands were caressing Ian’s hips from behind, his lips pressed against Ian’s shoulder as Ian unceremoniously tried to wash himself, gathered water in his cupped hands and splashed it against his skin. George’s mouth roamed over the swell of his shoulder, teeth catching on his skin.

George’s hands were already trying to find Ian’s dick. Ian turned, George’s mouth leaving his skin, only to find George kneeling in front of him. George’s hair was soaking wet, water dripping onto his shoulders and down his forehead; water beads caught on his eyebrows and eyelashes. Steam made the air thick with heat. Ian looked down at him, confused, the weak shower water hitting his back.

“How long does it take you to rebound?” George asked casually, licking his lips, his hands massaging Ian’s hips.

“Uh,” Ian stuttered. 

George took Ian’s flaccid cock into his hand without qualms, his thumb rubbing the length slowly. Ian shuddered, voice caught in the back of his throat and his hands gripping George’s shoulders, as George stroked him into arousal. George lifted his half chub, ran his tongue along the underside, hot mouth puffing humid breaths against his skin, sliding upwards until he was tonguing against the trembling tip. He licked into his slit, made a dirty noise in the back of his throat; Ian’s hips jumped, his dull fingernails digging into George’s shoulders. George mouthed Ian, his hand lightly pumping the rest of his stiffening length while his tongue pressed against the tip. He wrapped his lips around him, letting his hand settle at Ian’s base, licking whatever tight skin his tongue could reach.

Ian watched through wet-clumped eyelashes, panting through parted lips. George went farther down, his lips dragging, sucking wetly. He paused only to look up at Ian, still inches from the hilt, before swallowing against him. Ian groaned, his body curling. George pulled back until his mouth was only around Ian’s tip again, circling the skin with his tongue and lapping up the pre-cum.

“Oh God,” Ian breathed, one of the hands on George’s shoulders reaching up to press against George’s cool wet hair. The humid air made him dizzy; he felt like he could barely catch his breath.

George bobbed his head, taking Ian all the way to the base, moaning against Ian’s twitching erection, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, on the fading bruises of his right cheek; the butterfly bandages were starkly grey against George’s flushed skin.

Ian admittedly had no defense against blow jobs. He came, fidgeting, into George’s mouth, gasping humid air. George swallowed, choking, pulled away with glistening lips, a string of cum bridging between his parted lower lip and Ian’s tip. He flicked his tongue out to capture it, licking against the bottom of Ian’s dick to lap up the rest.

“How are you- unironically- a cumslut?” Ian asked in a strained, breathy tone. George wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“Here,” George said, nonchalantly standing, dick obviously erect. He quickly pressed his slick lips against Ian’s unprepared ones; George’s erection pressed against Ian’s thigh. It was completely different than the last post-blowjob kiss. Ian could taste his cum on George’s tongue as George licked into Ian’s mouth; Ian didn’t have the presence of mind to push him away. George’s hands found their way to Ian’s ass under the warm rivulets of water still pouring down Ian’s back; George leaned away, their lips parting wetly.

“See?” George said in a low voice. Ian had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. He leaned back in, whimpered against George’s mouth as his hand wrapped around George’s prick. George hummed back, rolling his hips into Ian’s grasp. Ian pushed George against the farthest wall, George’s calves hitting the curve of the tub. The tinny sound of unimpeded water hitting the tub floor filled the bathroom as Ian devoured George’s mouth, mouth clamping onto George’s. George groaned, the back of his head pressed against the wall, as Ian adjusted his hold on George’s dick, trying to get a better angle. Ian continued to swallow George’s noises as he clumsily jacked him off. George struggled to angle his mouth away from Ian’s, gasping.

“Fuck-” George sighed, fingers gripping the soft skin of Ian’s ass. Ian quickened his pace, focusing on George’s overwhelmed expression as George climaxed.

Ian held up his hand, looked at a line of jizz dripping towards his wrist. George was still backed up against the wall, his hands loosely holding Ian. Ian hesitantly licked the drip. He scrunched his face and shook his head, leaning forward and wiping his tongue on George’s mouth. George made a face.

“Yuck, no, gross,” Ian said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Seriously?”

“It’s not the taste, it’s the texture.”

“Whatever,” George said, pushing Ian away. “We need to finish washing off. The water’s been running.”

George shimmied past Ian to stand under the shower. Ian licked his lips.

 

-

 

[Heeeyyyy, Jimmy said you ran off??? Where u at??]

[Srsly do NOT get mugged and raped BC George *will* kill me lmao]

[Blurry, barely recognizable image of Goomba trying to climb onto the DJ’s stage]

Ian was sitting on the floor of his room, finally back into some comfortable clothes, phone in hand. Texts from Goomba were on the glowing screen. It was very comforting to see Goomba cared if he got mugged and/or raped. He typed back a curt response saying he was alive. Didn’t mention being back at George’s apartment though. He felt a little guilty. He hadn’t even paid for his own cocaine. 

It took him too long to figure out Jimmy was the guy he’d kept stupidly calling Macbook in his head. Jimmy was such a benign, human name; Ian didn’t like knowing it existed. He liked the distance “Macbook” gave him. Knowing “Macbook’s” real name turned him into a person all of a sudden. Like a real person that Ian could abandon, half-hard, in a grimy bathroom like a bastard because he couldn’t get his shit together. He felt like maybe he should apologize to Jimmy, but the thought of seeing him again made his stomach sink. Also he wasn’t a pussy and wasn’t going to say sorry for not jerking a stranger in the bathroom. This was just going to have to be one of those unresolved personal issues, unfortunately.

Ian checked his other unread message.

[George left the group chat? Did you talk to him about something?]

Max had texted him privately. Ian read the timestamp, 9:56pm, and groaned. George had left well before Ian had come home, before they’d talked about anything. Whatever reason George had for leaving he’d gotten completely from his own head. It was so petty and melodramatic, it was like Ian was friends with a couple of middle-aged women. This needed to stop, immediately, because there was no Goddamn reason they should be acting like fucking L.A. hoes playing it up for the camera. This is exactly the kinda bullshit he’d expected from spoiled brats from privileged backgrounds. Which, in all honesty, was who George and Max were; feeling like their presence was a gift, and that the ultimate punishment was their absence. That they had to take everything personally and turn it into a public display of betrayal.

But then… Ian felt very useless; a passive force and a hot mess, with everything arbitrarily happening around him. Maybe if he could just fix _ this _ situation, he could figure out what he was supposed to be in all of this. Maybe George would stop looking at him like he’d already lost him.

“Hey, Ian,” George called down the hallway, his voice distant through the open bedroom door. “What do you want for breakfast?” Ian pressed his phone to his forehead, closed his eyes.

“Uh, nothing. I’m good,” Ian called back.

“Ya’ sure?”

“Yeah. I’m not hungry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm forgetting something, but I'm too tired to remember. Like maybe something I was going to put in the AN?? Hopefully it's not important. If it is and I figure it out, I'll add it later, I guess. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter... it's not much in way of story development, but, eh, who's complaining.
> 
> EDIT: Oh shit I was going to talk about the lore promo lmao. Fuck me up. Like seriously?? It feels like the lore is ending??? and I want to die?? I'm not even going to try to guess what's going to happen because I trust George is going to be as disgusting and unpredictable as always. It blows my fucking mind that George seems to be spending a shit ton of money on this video like the production quality is fucking bonkers. It looks like this is going to be like an actual mini-movie and I'm scared to death of how much I'm going to potentially worship this shit. Goddamn Lore bitch I Die. He better not fucking drop that vid during finals week or I'm going to literally lose my marbles.


	13. Father John Misty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to remind everyone once again that I have no idea what the fuck I’m talking about. Literally all this shit is made up as hell. All the details are literally me arbitrarily deciding what I think would fit into the characters and/or progress the storyline. I have no proof whatsoever that any of this shit is even remotely accurate, so please take everything I write with a grain of salt lmao.
> 
> Also I'm sorry for the delay, it was originally going to be longer but I cut it off to get something posted. Fuck it lol.

Pale sunlight poured in through George’s window, printing white squares in the middle of the dim room; George’s bed was cast in navy darkness. Ian and George had somewhat returned to the way they’d been lying last night, George’s head on Ian’s chest, hands lightly curled against Ian’s ribs. Ian idly ran his fingers through George’s hair, brushing aside the strands that curled at his temple as they dozed in the warm afternoon.

Ian was glad as fuck George had finally tuckered out. George had lavished him with sexual favors all day, on top of, Ian assumed, not having gotten much sleep the night before, if at all. Ian usually wasn’t one to complain about busting a nut, but he was exhausted; and if he was exhausted, then George must’ve been fucking wasted. He looked down at George’s relaxed expression, his eyelashes on his cheek, pressed a kiss to the top of George’s head. 

Something was screwy in Ian’s stomach, a feeling like he was recovering from a knee to the gut; it wasn’t a pleasant feeling, but it wasn’t a particularly bad one either. Ian knew he was uncomfortable that he couldn’t really “return the favors” at the same level, but it was more complicated than that. Despite Ian’s outward reactions, he still felt like he was looking at this all too clinically; like he was seeing it a step away, responding to impulses instead of answering a question.

Of course, the problem was he didn’t know what question he was supposed to be answering- or, maybe more realistically, didn’t want to pose any questions. Easier to ask forgiveness of himself than permission, so it felt. He could continue acting any way that he wanted as long as he didn’t think about what he was allowing himself to do. Because it wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t have to be a big deal. It was... just George. 

He felt guilty for thinking that.

Ian had so immediately and so thoroughly woven this guy into the fabric of his landscape, he hadn’t thought of him outside the category of “just George.” He’d been using “just George” as an excuse since the beginning, and it wasn’t anything more than a way to quickly squash any social awkwardness. A way to distance himself from George’s eyes and George’s hands and George’s lips when they were so persistently and unconsciously intruding on his personal space. It’s no big deal. It’s just George.

That hadn’t really worked though because “just George” was now curled against his side. Ian could’ve laughed if it wasn’t so fucking terrifying. 

George startled awake, running a hand over his face and sitting up. Ian’s hand left his hair.

“What time is it?” George was already looking at the clock. Ian turned to look anyway.

“Four fifty PM,” Ian said coolly. George laid back down, his hair fanning on the bed, and nuzzled into Ian’s side.

“We wasted the day.”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.” George yawned. “How many days do you have left in New York?”

“Oh. Uh, four? No. Three.” George didn’t respond to that. “Do you want to do something? I mean, outside of the apartment.”

“Hm, maybe… It’s just- it’s funny,” George said, low. “I’d made all these mental plans of what we were going to do once you got here, and literally all of them have been thrown out the window.”

“Like what?” Ian asked, murmuring.

“Like… I don’t know; I can’t even remember half of it now.” George shifted. “It all just went a bit differently in my head.” George was staring at the ceiling, pursing his lips as a blush crept onto his face. Ian cleared his throat.

“What, uh, exactly- went a bit differently?” Ian asked, hesitant.

“Well... first of all...” George sat up, tucking his feet under him, and faced Ian. He clasped Ian’s right hand, his thumb gingerly brushing Ian’s bruised knuckles. “I didn’t mean to become some sort of damsel in distress like a fucking retard. I feel like that’s all you’ve gotten out of this trip, and I’d really wanted you to have a good time.”

“I’ve had a good time,” Ian interjected.

“Yeah, with Goomba,” George said sedately. “Look, I don’t know what you did that got you fucked up enough to come back and almost fuck me against a wall, but I’m assuming it was probably a lot of fun.”

“Uh, no,” Ian laughed. “No, it was all a little unsettling and horrible.”

“What  _ did _ you do?” George asked. Ian hesitated.

“Cocaine, I think,” he mumbled.

“Goomba got you to snort coke? Ian, are you serious?”

“It’s not like it was meth or some shit.”

“Fuck.” George shook his head, smiling. “I wish I could be mad, but the thought of you high on coke is just- it’s a turn-on. You didn’t like it?”

Ian sat up, idly lacing his fingers with George’s, as he thought. 

“No, I think I liked the cocaine, which is probably a bad thing. I just didn’t like the people. I didn’t like being there.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Some- basement of an abandoned building, I think.”

“The Brooklyn slums,” George said, shaking his head. “What’d I tell ya?”

“You know,” Ian grinned, looking down at their intertwined hands. “You told me, and I didn’t listen.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic; it wasn’t that bad. You recovered pretty quickly anyway.” George pressed his lips to Ian’s discolored knuckles. It only hurt a little. “Could’ve been worse.”

“It seemed pretty bad in the moment,” Ian said quietly.

“Coming down from a coke high will do that,” George replied. “I think we should go somewhere chill for dinner. Unless you’re game for more coke?”

“Uh, no. I’m not really interested in going home with a coke addiction.”

“Doing coke twice does not an addict make, but I respect your decision. I’d also respect if you changed your mind.”

“I’ll think about it,” Ian said. 

“Because, you know, you have a little time to mull it over and I don’t want you to think I’d respect you any less if you decided to dive nose first into an 8 ball.”

“Damn, that’s support. Might have me doing lines off your stomach just yet.”

“Ian, fuck.” George looked pained “Don’t get my hopes up.”

“Do you do coke?” Ian asked. “Like regularly?”

“Oh please, what do you take me for?” George paused. “I only use recreationally, like a sensible person.”

“Oh, that is sensible,” Ian joked. George leaned forward, his hand caressing the side of Ian’s neck.

“You can’t sit there and judge me, babe. _ I  _ wasn’t the one doing blow last night,” he said.

“True. Unfortunately, you  _ didn’t  _ do blow last night.” Ian tilted his head, his lips hovering over George’s. George sighed.

“God, I just want to see you fucked up in every way possible.” The way he said it made Ian jump. George closed the gap, covering Ian’s lips with his, his hand sliding to the back of Ian’s neck. His teeth grazed Ian’s lower lip. Ian pulled away, gasping.

“What was the second thing?” Ian asked.

“What?” George’s eyes were closed, his fingers scratching the wispy hair at the base of Ian’s head. 

“You said, ‘First of all,’ which meant there was presumably a second of all...” Ian explained. George opened his eyes, confused.

“What was the question again?”

“ _ What _ went a bit differently in your head?” Ian persisted. “I just- was there a second of all?”

“ _ Was _ there a second of all?” George asked. Their foreheads were still pressed together, George’s fingers still gently combing through Ian’s hair. “How did  _ you _ think this week was going to go, Ian?”

“I…” Ian struggled. “I don’t know.”

“Then why’d you come?” 

“I- don’t know?” Ian chewed the inside of his cheek. Whatever he said next was going to be a lie. “Because I thought maybe it would… ease the tensions? I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“But you knew I wasn’t talking about it in front of Max and Chad, and  _ you _ didn’t talk about it in front of Max and Chad, so-”

“I actually did,” Ian quickly admitted, not liking the line of thought they were currently barreling down. George’s fingers froze.

“What, when?” 

“After I got here.” Ian felt a little too deceptive saying it. George tensed for a moment, inhaling sharply, then went limp, heaving a sigh.

“Oh fuck it.” George took a deep breath, his eyes closed. “What’d you tell them?” Ian inhaled through his teeth. This line of thought wasn’t much better.

“Uh... ya know- I don’t really remember. It just- naturally came up that I was in New York.”

George leaned back and looked at him, expression unreadable. Ian pursed his lips and shrugged, belated. Ian knew he’d completely failed his poker face, and the lies hadn’t been that great either, so he was completely at the mercy of George’s capricious whim.

“But Max knows you’re here?” George asked.

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” George looked like he was about to laugh. Ian was concerned. “That’s as bad for you as it is for me, faggot. Maybe worse.”

“Why’s that?”

George put his hand on Ian’s inner thigh and made a face; averted his eyes and raised his eyebrows. Ian sat, unmoving, trying to put the vague pieces together. He furrowed his brow. George looked at him.

“Max knows I’m a faggot,” George said.

“Max knows you’re gay?”

“He knows I’m some sorta queer, yes.”

“Oh. Well. That doesn’t have to mean I’m… uh...” Part of Ian’s drunken phone conversation with Max was suddenly coming back to him like a hot pan to the face. He couldn’t remember exactly what he said, but it’d been something dubious and ambiguous and weird. Max had definitely prompted him to talk about it, and he’d definitely allowed himself to say too much, definitely thinking Max wouldn’t be able to figure it out, or so his drunken mind had definitely thought. He covered his face with his hands. ”Oh my God.” 

“You outed yourself, buddy.” The hand on Ian’s thigh tightened in support.

“It’s not a big deal,” Ian said through his hands. He composed himself, his hands running down his face. 

“Sure.”

“I mean… I didn’t  _ really _ out myself. I’m not really- uhm-” Ian was suddenly thinking about Jimmy. Poor Jimmy, abandoned in the bathroom. George tilted his head, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Hm.” George shifted, his hand still on Ian’s thigh. “Let’s be logical about this.”

“Okay.”

“You show up to my apartment, knowing full-well we’d be alone  _ for a week _ after having already kissed me on multiple occasions, and within 24 hours you’re getting head and giving handjobs like a nubile sorority girl.”

“All right.”

“Did you have sex with Goomba?” George asked.

“I- uh- no.”

“No?” 

“Not really,” Ian said. George seemed surprised.

“So you go out with an active stripper, _don’t_ lay her and, _instead_ , come back to my apartment and- yikes. Ian. It’s not looking good.”

“Okay, but we’re not counting the other 26 years of being mostly straight.” Ian pointed out. “That’s gotta outweigh most of this.”

“I guess it’s just how you look at it,” George said.

“Well, how long have you been gay?” Ian asked. George barked a laugh.

“Ian. I’ve been sexually confused since the day I was born. Popped out biracial and bisexual. A fucking dream growing up in traditional Japan. I mean that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was instant daddy to literally everyone.” George’s hand was lightly caressing Ian’s thigh. “I corrupted the youth, then skirted to the States before they could fuck me back.” 

“You took advantage of the sweet, unsuspecting yellow people?”

“Yeah, but my services were wanted as fuck. I was dominant in bed and that was a hot fucking commodity. For every top, there were, like, about ten bottoms, so it was… a lot _ ,” _ George paused. “But I’m pretty sure most of the girls I dated did it to piss off their dads, so who was the real victim there.”

“The dads, probably,” Ian said. “You sounded like a douchebag.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty true.” George looked down at his hand. “It was kind of a complete reversal once I’d gotten to Brooklyn. Fucking weird as shit.”

“That sounds fake,” Ian said.

“Does it?”

“Yeah. It sounds like something from a shitty hentai.”

“I think that’s one of the worst things anyone’s ever said to me,” George said, laughing. “It’s okay if you were a salty virgin in high school, Ian. A lot of people don’t get laid until their 20’s.”

“I’ve gotten an adequate amount of pussy. A realistic amount. Not some fantasy number of a million boys and girls lining up at my bedroom door, though.”

“Maybe that’s because you need to loosen up.” George placed a quick peck on Ian’s lips and got up from the bed, walking over to his dresser drawers. “Open up your options.”

“Are you hinting at more cocaine?” Ian asked, trying to hide his wariness. George was shuffling through his drawer.

“Do you still want to go to dinner?” George asked.

“Yes,” Ian said. George closed the drawer.

“Then we should leave soon. It’s already past 5.” He opened another drawer and pulled out some clothes. Ian got up from the bed and skirted around George, who was stepping out of his pants, and left out the bedroom door.

The other bedroom felt more foreboding every time Ian walked in, darker and quieter. His suitcase was on his bed, his clothes already unneatly pouring onto the covers. He picked out clothes at random and pulled them on, running his hand through his hair and down his face. His glasses were still in the bathroom.

He stepped back out into the hallway. 

Down the hall, George was already standing in the bathroom, in front of the open cabinet, hair product bottles lying in the sink. He was looking down at a little orange bottle, his lips pursed. Ian stood quietly, not hiding, but not bringing attention to himself either. George heaved a quiet sigh, put the medication back and closed the cabinet. He turned the faucet on. Ian didn’t know if George saw him as he casually walked towards him.

“Have you seen my glasses?” Ian asked, edging behind him in the small bathroom. George was washing product off his hands.

“Uh, I think they’re on the back of the toilet.” Ian leaned over, picked them up and slid them on. He was standing behind George, saw their reflections side-by-side in the mirror.

“You look good,” Ian said. George’s hands imperceptibly stalled under the water.

“That’s gay.” George turned off the faucet. “You look good, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following is Lore spoilers, so read at your own risk: 
> 
> The Lore was amazing and I want to draw Frank with his hair pulled back because omfg I died a HORRIBLE DEATH when he came on screen. I'd like to go a little angsty and point out that the "Fake" Frank is a real Frank from another timeline? Like... he's presumably got all the memories and feelings of a real Frank, he's just from an non-dominant timeline where he's a pussy who worships Chin Chin. And he's obviously not very powerful and it was actually really sad when Negi roasted him to death (maybe not dead? I'm crying I loved Fake Frank Q~Q) Also Safari man might be dead?? and wtf is happening to Pink Guy?? I also thought it was really interesting that it was hinted that there were beings more powerful than Chin Chin, so I think George is going to be introducing some new bad guys, which is gonna destroy my life. Jesus Christ, this is the kinda Sci-Fi soap opera bullshit that I crave and never receive. God Bless George.


	14. Max Frost

-

 

The whole place smelled like an ashtray; the cigarettes overwhelmed the smell of food and mixed with the smell of strong coffee. Ian wasn’t sure when smoking cigarettes had turned into an edgy activity, but he certainly felt like George was breaking the law as he lit one, cigarette between his lips and bic-lighter throwing sparks from his thumb, and added to the smoke accumulating in the maroon rafters of the hole-in-the-ground artist’s haven. Ian hadn’t realized how long it’d been since he’d seen someone smoke indoors in a public place until his brain had trouble reconciling it. George stared at the table, chewed the inside of his bottom lip as his fingers flicked the cigarette.

Since they’d left the apartment, George hadn’t stopped looking self-conscious. It felt like he was trying to hide himself, either tucking himself behind Ian or standing a few steps ahead, smiling only when Ian had caught his eye, then returning back to his brooding when he thought Ian had looked away.

It frustrated Ian more than anything. He’d been jumping to conclusions with the very tips of his toes, but he wasn’t willing to venture a guess at the development of this behavior. It occurred to him that it had nothing to do with him personally, so would be completely impossible to guess, and he wasn’t about to ask George to explain.

Instead he quietly watched George, who was leaned back, a cigarette hanging from his lips, from across the table.

“Sorry for the wait.” A waitress scuttled up to the table, agitatedly pulling a pen from her apron. She situated herself, looking at both of them and running a hand over her hair to try and settle the fly-aways from her side-braid. “What can I get you guys to drink?”

Ian vaguely recognized her, but couldn’t place from where.

“A Beebee Lager,” George said, smoke pouring from his lips. He looked over to Ian. “Two Beebee Lagers?” They hadn’t been given menus, so Ian had no idea what was going on.

“That’s a beer, right?” Ian asked.

“It’s a craft beer,” the waitress helpfully provided.

“Uh... sure, okay.” Ian said. The waitress wrote down the order and skirted away. Ian waited for her to be out of earshot. “Craft beer?”

“Yup.”

“Does this place even serve regular people food?”

“I don’t know if I’d use words like ‘regular’ or ‘serve’ around here. Might strike a nerve.” George joked, putting his elbows on the table, the cigarette hanging loosely from his fingers. “But yes, you just have to suffer through the judgmental looks you get when you order it.”

“Do we get menus?”

“Oh,” George looked like he’d just had a realization. “No.”

“They don’t have menus?”

“Fuck no. You’re supposed to ask the waitress what she thinks is good like some shit from Eat Pray Love until you’re a frequent enough flier to just know what they serve.”

“Do you know what they serve?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what? I’ll just have what you’re having. I’m not fucking with this _gay shit_ any more than I have to.”

“Ian, keep your voice down, you could trigger the whole restaurant.” George looked almost serious this time as he tapped ashes in the glass ashtray. Ian pursed his lips.

“Am I currently dining in a safe space?” Ian asked, his voice lower than before. George chuckled, nodding his head. Ian raised his eyebrows. “You come here often?  
“Depends,” George said, his tongue wetting his lower lip.

“What do you usually get?” Ian asked.

“Fried zucchini grilled cheese with a dijon mustard dipping sauce.”

“That’s a lot of bull shit.”

“It’s just a glorified grilled cheese.” George put the cigarette between his lips.

“It sounds like they drew some random shit from a hat and threw it onto a sandwich,” Ian said.

“If they did, it’s a goddamn miracle because it turned out pretty good.” George grinned, looking a bit more brazen.

Two pints were set down on the table, the foam fighting to spill over the lip of the glass. George retreated behind his cigarette. The waitress seemed distracted.

“I’ll be right back to get your orders,” she said, not looking at them, and flitted off. Ian watched her go.

“They don’t hang around to rant your ear off like you think they would,” Ian said, hand gripping the cold glass. George picked up his pint and drank deeply, foam catching on his lip.

“You make her nervous,” George stated after, semi-breathless from the drink.

“ _I_ make her nervous?” Ian asked.

“You make her nervous,” George repeated with a nod. “What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything… I think.” Ian frowned. “I don’t know. She looks kinda familiar, I guess.”

“I don’t recognize her,” George said. He put his cigarette out in the ash tray.

“Hm.” Ian noted the edge in his voice. George’s hands were under the table, the inside of his elbows pressed against the polished edge. He looked indecisively at the spent cigarette lying in the ash tray.

The waitress walked back.

“All right, sorry about that. What are we getting?” She looked expectedly at them. Ian looked at George. George tilted his head, thinking.

“We’re just gonna get two of the zucchini grilled cheese,” he decided. She started to write that down. “Unless you have something to recommend?” Ian kicked George’s shin under the table. George kicked him back.

“Oh, uh, well, uhm,” she stuttered, looking only at George. “Uh… well, it depends. Are you looking for- vegan options or…?”

“Hm, I don’t know. Ian, are we looking for vegan options?” George bit his lip to try and stop his smile. Ian was sternly glaring at George, but turned comfortably amicable the moment the waitress looked at him.

“I’m fine with any option, honestly,” Ian said, eyes flicking from the waitress to George.

“Yeah, okay, so I’d recommend the Greek Island chicken shish kebabs. They’re, uh, pretty good. It’s got like olive oil, garlic, cumin- it’s just a really good marinade. Mushroom, tomatoes, uh…”

“Is there kale in it?” Ian innocently asked. George was fiddling with his jeans’ pocket, pulling out his cigarette carton.

“I… don’t think so… I could ask them if they could add kale, if you want it.”

“Nah, I’m good,” Ian said. “The shish kebab sounds better than the zucchini sandwich.”

“Alright, cool.” The waitress was smiling as she wrote it down. “So one chicken shish kebab… and…?”

“I’m sticking to the zucchini grilled cheese,” George said, putting the cigarette between his lips and pulling out his lighter. She wrote that down, looking at Ian over the top of her note pad.

“All right. I’ll put your order in.”

She bounced away, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

“I didn’t know they had meat on the menu,” George said, lighting his cigarette with cupped hands. Ian kicked him in the shin again, this time harder.

“What the fuck, dude; that was rude.” Ian admonished.

“What? I was asking her to do her job. And you got a better meal out of it, so...” George said, renewing the smell of ash tray. He was staring down at the table again, moodily drinking from his pint.

“Stop it,” Ian said.

“Stop what?” George asked.

“Acting all wounded, Jesus Christ.”

“All right,” George said, blew out a cloud of smoke. “Last time I was here, I DJed.”

Ian ran over the sudden change of subjects in his head for a moment. He decided it wasn’t worth mentioning.

“You DJed _here?”_ He asked, looked across the obstacle course of tables and pillars that took up most of the small restaurant. “ _Where_ here _?”_

George pointed to a corner where two dinky fold-out tables slumped abandoned; plastic crates sat underneath them and a metal chair was folded to the side. Ian raised his eyebrows, questioning. George shrugged one shoulder, lips quirking.

“Do you know how many DJs there are trying to make it big in New York City?” George asked, resting one hand on the table while the other held the cigarette.

“Probably ten million?”

“Probably ten million,” George confirmed. “You gotta start somewhere. This wasn’t a bad place to start.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” George said. “A lot of creators milled through here. It was- a regular thing, you know. A lot of people to mingle with from a lot of different places.”

“But not anymore?”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

“So…?” Ian prompted.

“It was more like…” George struggled with the words. “I- outgrew the ideologies associated with being a bleeding heart artist. Nothing personal; just politics.”

“So, why’d we come here?”

“Well, there’s no cocaine to tempt us,” George said, then pursed his lips. “Though the night’s still young…”

“Noted.”

“I also don’t really know any of the people here,” George said, reaching his resting hand across the table to awkwardly pat Ian’s. “So it’s all chill.”

George started pulling his hand away, but Ian covered it, pressed it against the table, stopping it in its retreat. George locked eyes with Ian, startled.

“It’s chill,” Ian said, looking down at his hand, thumb stroking the side of George’s. George made a face, almost a smile but not quite, and took a jittery pull from his cigarette.

“Anyway,” He said through smoke as Ian continued his casual caress. “It’s gotten better - the venues, I mean. I feel like it’s been mostly luck though. Like I was invited to DJ at some club in Manhattan this Friday-”

“This Friday?”

“Yeah. Some guy cancelled on them, and I was asked to fill in. It was kind of a last minute thing,” George explained.

“What- uh- time on Friday?”

“Late,” George said. “When’s your flight leave?”

“Friday evening.” Ian’s brain was suddenly anxious to somehow add seeing George DJ to the plans, even though it was impossible.

“I didn’t think you’d want to go,” George said.

“Yeah,” Ian sighed, not knowing what he was saying yeah to. He felt like he was leeching the heat from George’s hand. “Do you have a setlist already done?”

“Somewhat. I’ve been putting it off.” George flicked ash into the ashtray. “But I’d like your opinion on it.”

“Hah, like I’d be of any help.” Ian laced his fingers with George’s in the middle of the table, chasing the warmth. “I don’t know anything about music.”

“I don’t know anything about music, either. I’ve been throwing shit together until it sounded good since the beginning of my career and literally no one’s noticed.” George put his cigarette out. “I’m just asking you to listen to it; tell me it’s not horrible.”

“I can do that.” Ian said, idly pressing the heel of his hand against George’s. “You know, unless it actually is horrible. Then we might have a problem.”

“You wouldn’t spare my feelings?”

“Not even a little bit.” Ian took a drink from his glass. “How are you supposed to get better if people don’t tell you your shit’s shitty?”

“That’s true. But if I don’t have time to fix it and I still have to perform it Friday…” George squeezed Ian’s hand. “Then all that does is make you a jerk.”

“Somebody's gotta be that jerk eventually. It’d be better if it was me, right?”

“I don’t know about that. You’re kind of mean,” George joked.

“What? No.” Ian grinned. “It’s not mean if it’s true.”

“And it’s exactly that mentality that makes you a genuine bully, Ian.”

“Are we going to psychoanalyze me now? Because that would be _really_ appropriate for first date discussion,” Ian said before he could censor himself. He immediately tried to brush off that he’d labeled this “a date” by not acknowledging it, his expression remaining unchanged.

“No, I’ll refrain from roasting you,” George said, brushing it off also but obviously pleased, biting the inside of his lip. “Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t let you listen to my music after all.”

“Aw, George,” Ian said. “Don’t be like that. I’ll be nice, I promise.”

“No, it’s too late. Now I’ll feel like you’re lying, no matter what you say.”

“What was that about ‘bleeding heart artists’ that you said you weren’t a part of anymore? Faggot?” George laughed, his cheeks ruddy, his hair falling into his eyes. Ian smiled, watched George with crinkled eyes.

A server with a wispy beard and beanie, a stereotypical lumber-sexual, walked up to their table with a tray in hand. George kept eye contact with Ian; they both seemed hyper-aware of their hands folded in the middle of the table but neither had made a move to let go.

“Who had the chicken kebab?” The server asked. Ian gestured towards himself. Plates were placed in front of them on the wooden table, between the glasses of beer and the smoldering ash tray and Ian and George’s gripping hands.

“Enjoy.”

 

-

 

“My childhood house was haunted,” Ian said. Their plates held scraps of food and their glasses were empty. George was holding Ian’s hand with both of his, finger tracing the lines of Ian’s palm. The restaurant felt darker as more people filled the room, crowding it. An indie band headed by a tiny girl with really long hair in a floral dress seemed to be setting up their meager equipment in the tiny space George had DJed from.

“I didn’t peg you as the superstitious type,” George said, preoccupied with Ian’s hand.

“I’m not; the place was just actually haunted.”

“What happened?”

“Well… like one time I was taking a shower-” Ian started. George snickered. “Don’t laugh. One time I was taking a shower with the radio playing while my parents were out. So it was just me, alone.”

“Okay.”

“Suddenly, the radio turned off. And I’m thinking, could be anything. It was an old radio. I ignore it. Then the radio slowly turned back on-”

“How does a radio slowly turn back on?” George asked.

“The volume was being turned up or something. It was a gradual increase in volume, but instead of music, it was just static. Still, I’m thinking maybe the radio just lost the signal, is trying to reconnect or something. I’d finished showering, so I turned off the water, but for some reason I didn’t open the curtains. Then the door to the bathroom opened.”

“Shit.”

“I was trying to remember if I locked the door, and I was pretty sure I did. And the locks to my old bathroom were the type that were easy to open from the inside, but impossible to open from the outside. You know, where you press the button in-”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m not opening the curtain for fucking anything at this point, I’m fucking freaked out. Then the radio’s changing stations and it lands on some Catholic radio where it’s just nuns saying Hail Marys in a church, and the audio’s grainy. And I just feel like there’s something on the other side of the curtain, so I stand there for probably a solid minute like that, refusing to open the curtain and freezing to death from being sopping wet.”

“What did you think was happening?”

“I seriously don’t know. I just stood there. Anyway, the door eventually opened and closed again. The radio went back to normal, playing whatever pop hit had been playing before. So I got out of the shower. The door was still locked and my parents didn’t get home for another 20 minutes.”

“That’s not real,” George said. “That’s just a story.”

“Honest to God, that really happened. It was the weirdest experience of my life.”

“Did something similar ever happen again?”

“Nothing to that extent. It was mostly a lot of little things that could’ve just been my imagination.”

“Man, that’s kinda creepy,” George said, still mindlessly examining Ian’s palm.

“Yeah,” Ian agreed. He’d actually freaked himself out remembering it. He tried to concentrate on George’s hands. “Ever do palm readings?”

“Have them done on me, or do them myself?” George asked.

“Either. Both.”

“Neither. Which is probably a shame.” George ran a finger down the center of Ian’s palm. Ian shivered.

“I feel like you’d be good at it,” Ian said. “Bullshitting some fake crap to stupid white people.”

“Here, I’ll start with you,” George said, holding Ian’s hand up to get a closer look. Ian pretended to be serious, watching George focus on his palm. “Obviously, you’re going to die young.”

“Clearly.”

“You’ve had a pretty uneventful sex life…. Interesting... This line says you have a big dick. You’ve deprived the world of your dick, Ian. How selfish.”

“What the fuck, it’s _my_ dick. I should be able to do what I want with it.”

“I’m just telling you what the lines told me, dude,” George said.

“Well, the lines need to mind their own business,” Ian said.

“Good evening everybody,” a small voice breathed into a mic, filling the room with it’s crackly hum. Ian and George looked over. A petite girl was holding a bottle of beer, her other hand caressing the mic stand. “We’re Upside Down Tree. I’m Emma, and this is Travis and Ulysses. I just want to- thank you all for the opportunity to share our art. It means a lot and I hope you enjoy.”

She turned to her guitarist and her drummer/keyboardist, taking a swig of beer and grabbing the tambourine from the top of a speaker. Ian and George looked at each other.

“Did we want to stay for the show?” Ian asked.

“Let’s give them a chance, see if they impress us,” George said, letting go of Ian’s hand. The guitarist played some soft riffs; the drummer tapped a regular beat on his snare drum with a brush. The girl was humming. She opened her mouth and her voice was shrill and dippy. Ian and George watched each other’s expression shift.

“No,” Ian said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, no.” George hailed the waitress. She trotted over, holding four empty glasses between her fingers. “Can we get the check?”

“Yessir. Is this going on one check or two?”

George hesitated.

“Two,” Ian said. “Thank you.”

She hurried away. Tryhard indie music floated around them.

 

-

 

George and Ian walked out onto the sidewalk, through clouds of cigarette smoke, the sound of music fading as the wooden door to the restaurant closed behind them. The street lights reflected off the damp pavement; fairy lights were woven in the wooden frames of sectioned-off outdoor cafes as George and Ian started down the street. Night owls sipped at coffee mugs while they scanned their menus, chatted over free bread under the dark navy sky. George pressed his shoulder to Ian’s and took his hand, hiding it against his side, as he looked over the crowded pavilion. Yellow light outlined his face, caught on the edge of his stubbly jawline, as they strolled past.

“Back to the apartment?” Ian asked, mesmerized.

“Uh… yeah. I’m tired.” George was still looking away, at the brick archways of the passing boutique shops and the people milling about.

“Yeah.” Ian squeezed George’s hand.

“I forget how old I am sometimes,” George muttered, his words almost drowned out by the ambient noise of the streets. “I forget that I’m getting older... I didn’t plan on getting older.”

“What _did_ you plan?” Ian asked. George looked up at Ian, eyes soft, then looked forward, pursing his lips. They were passing a dim alley now; George’s face fell into shadow.

“I’d planned on bailing a long time ago. The moment I felt I couldn’t fix everything, I was gonna... go.” George cleared his throat. Ian clenched his teeth.

Ian pushed George off the deceptively lit sidewalk into the alleyway, pressed him against the dark brick wall. George’s eyes caught the light, stark against the fighting obscurity, as he looked up at Ian, his expression unreadable. Their breath echoed in their heads, caught between their open mouths, before Ian smothered George’s lips, his hands desperately cupping his face. George tasted like ash; his hands lightly gripped Ian’s waist, his lips pliant.

Ian pulled away, his forehead leaned against George’s, their hair caught between, cursing his glasses for their obstruction. His eyes were closed.

“Don’t,” Ian breathed.

“I’m not, I’m not,” George said in a low voice, edged his lips forward to touch Ian’s again. “I don’t want to.”

“Promise.” Ian’s fingers brushed into George’s hair, his eyes opening. George was looking steadily back at him.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is hella late as fuck whoops. It's crunch time because I have two weeks left of the semester and I need a 3.25 gpa to keep my scholarships, so I've been going crazy with trying to salvage my grades lol. So... I might have to skip the next couple of weeks. I really don't want to - like, I REALLY don't want to - but I'm forcing myself to because I really need to focus. I should be back when I go on Christmas break, and then ur stuck with me because I'll be writing like mad.
> 
> But ur stuck on this cliff hanger for a little bit. :\ sorry


	15. Bleachers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHA I'M BACK MOTHERFUCKERS!!!!
> 
> This chapter was written over a very long period of time for no fucking reason other than I couldn't figure out how to type what I had in my head. I'll explain a bunch of other shit in the author's notes at the end because I want you guys to just get into the chapter.
> 
> Sorry the "break" turned into a hiatus, but it's (hopefully) over. God willing, the updates will be consistent until I finish this thing off.

George’s macbook was lying on the floor, haphazardly tossed aside. The headphone cord looped across the area rug; the discarded headphones were plugged into the audio jack like an astronaut tethered to a satellite. The distant music still coming through the headphones murmured the distorted sounds of manipulated vocals. Multiple tracks had played, unlistened, since the computer had hit the floor.

“Fuck-” George gasped, biting his lip, his eyebrows pinched. His thighs quivered on either side of Ian’s hips, knees sliding against the bedsheets. Ian’s fingers dug into George’s hipbones as he watched George ease himself down onto his prick.

Everything about George was soft: his hands, pressed against Ian’s ribs; his skin, goosebumping under Ian’s touch; his hair, matte dark; his eyes, watery under black eyelashes. 

Ian was legitimately shocked by how accustomed he already was to the way George’s body moved; Ian’s hands were no longer grasping but holding. He indulged himself, letting fingers drift along George’s side, sighing unintelligible praises as George lowered catchingly. George released the tension in his thighs, resting back until the skin on the bottom of his thighs was flush with Ian’s. He shivered, thick pink lips parting, lifted himself to adjust and pressed down again; deliberately, slowly, watching Ian’s expression with a pinched expression. 

Ian kept steady eye contact, ignoring the growing warmth in his stomach, stroked George’s hipbones, shifted his hands to George’s naval, appreciating George’s happy trail before drifting lower, holding George’s member in his hand. George’s shoulders twitched with his shuddering uneven breath, but he kept his rocking slow and let Ian decide the pace of his stroke.

“I’m never going to get through that playlist at this rate, faggot,” Ian breathed, caressing George’s cock. George grinned, ducked his head, hands moving up Ian’s body to his shoulders to balance himself before grinding down hard. “Shit-”

George was falling apart faster than Ian, mouth hanging open, eyes pressed shut, Ian’s hand on his dick almost completely forgotten, as his hips rhythmically lurched.

“Fuck,” George said, jolted, stalling only momentarily before finding that angle again. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck.  _ Ian _ -” George clamped his hand over his own mouth, visibly embarrassed by the obscene way he’d moaned the name. He continued to pull himself up and push himself down, his face red and eyes looking anywhere but Ian.

Ian looked like he’d been given a gift, his eyes bright and a smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. George’s embarrassment was fucking ace. Ian gripped George’s dick tighter, wetting his lower lip.

George’s hand pressed harder onto his face, fingers denting into his flushed cheeks. He pushed a forceful breath out of his nose as he came onto Ian’s stomach, Ian’s cock buried in his ass. Ian seized George’s hips, rolling George onto his back to fuck him slowly into the mattress, their bodies as close together as he could bend. George’s hair fanned out on the pillow, eyes half-lidded, as Ian leisurely finished himself off, coming inside him with a shudder and a gasp.

Ian sagged next to George, laid on his side with his arms resting in front of him, facing George. George turned his head to look over at Ian, his hand falling from his mouth. He rolled his eyes at the shit-eating grin on Ian’s face.

“Oh, fuck off, Ian,” George said, turning his head to look at the ceiling, yawning. “I was doing most of the work.”

“Yeah, whatever. Still my dick,” Ian said, leaning to press lips to George’s neck. George hummed tiredly, tilting his head to allow Ian better access to his jaw. George heaved a long breath, his eyes closed and his body listless. 

“Jesus fuck, I’m tired,” George said in a low voice. “I’m motherfucking tired.”

“You should probably get to bed before 4am,” Ian whispered into George’s skin.

“ _ You _ should probably get to bed before 4am,” George said.

“I only stayed up because you did.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not really,” Ian leaned back. George’s eyes were closed, his breathing soft. “Are you going to sleep?”

“No,” George said sternly. “I’m getting up and making some coffee.”

“ _ Right _ .”

“No, I’m serious. I’m not going to sleep yet.”

“Why?” Ian asked, propping himself up and looking down at George.

“Because I’m not going to sleep yet, cunt.” George didn’t look like he was about to get up any time soon. Ian waited. George stayed firmly in the bed. 

“Hm. Well, we’re not drinking the instant coffee. I’m pretty sure that shit’ll give you prostate cancer. Like stop buying it, immediately, because it can’t taste that foul for nothing.” Ian sat up, stretching. “I’ll walk to the gas station and get gas station coffee.”

“That’s a great idea, I’ll come with you.”

“Nah, it’ll be faster if I go alone.” Ian slid off the bed, closing the Macbook and gathering his clothes off the floor. He used his underwear to wipe the cum off his stomach. He was just going to have to go commando again. “You stay here and try not sleep.”

“Mhm.”

Ian pulled on his jeans and tugged on his shirt as he walked towards the bedroom door. He turned the knob with one hand and stuck his other hand in his pocket; he felt his cell phone. Standing in the dim doorway, he pulled it out and unlocked it. 

“George?”

“Hm?”

“When are you planning on fixing this thing with Max?”

“Hrumph.”

“I’m serious.” 

“Can we talk about this after coffee?” George groaned, irritated. Ian pursed his lips

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Ian offered. George tilted his head away from Ian, looked at him with disgust.

“Ew, what? No. God no. What the fuck?”

Ian stood in the doorway, indecisively gripping his phone. George watched him, sighed.

“You’re not my keeper, Ian. I don’t need you speaking on my behalf. I can figure this shit out on my own,” George said.

“I wouldn’t be speaking to him on your behalf. I’d just be talking- and it’d probably be about you. I just don’t want you to feel like I’m going behind your back.”

“What would you tell him?”

“I would tell him what I told you,” Ian said, watching George carefully. George heaved a sigh.

“I guess I’m not your keeper, either. Can’t stop you from being a little pussy.” George relaxed back into the bed, looking up at the ceiling. “You know this is only going to make things worse for you, though, right?”

“I’m aware.” Ian looked down at his phone, sort of amazed that’d gone as smoothly as it did. The magic of being fucked out and loopy from sleep deprivation was real. 

“As in it’s just going to get harder to brush off the faggotry,” George continued. “And, you know, it’s directly affecting my level of faggotry, so that fucking sucks.” 

“Yeah,” Ian agreed distractedly.

“And I like to keep my faggortry at a passable level. Never go full faggot. I’ve been there. It’s not as fun as you’d think.” 

“Mhm.”

George paused. 

“So, in exchange,” he drawled. “I want to fuck you.”

“Sure.”

“No, listen.” George shifted. _ “I  _ want to fuck  _ you _ .”

Ian looked up from his phone at George, a sarcastic comment on the tip of his tongue, something about having already done that for three days straight. George’s eyes stopped him short; they were too focused and aggressive. Ian shifted uncomfortably.

“You mean uh-” Ian struggled to say it. “You- want me to bottom?”

“Just a little butt stuff. That’s the deal.”

“Uhhhh,” Ian took a step out the door. “Uhhhh. Uhhhhh.”

“It’s not even a fair trade, if you think about it, I mean-” Ian had already backed up into the hallway, cast in shadow. “Jesus, Ian, you’re so dramatic.”

“We can talk about it. Later.” Ian said, felt like he was calling across a great abyss. George shook his head in shallow disbelief.

Ian turned away from the bed room, ignoring the absolutely inexplicable jitteriness in his chest as he followed the hall to the kitchen, grabbed the apartment keys off the kitchen counter, stepped over the garbage on the floor, and skirted out the front door of the apartment. He shook himself, clearing his throat, again unlocking his phone. The contact screen for “Aussie Cunt” came back up. Ian started for the elevator, finger hovering over the dial button.

 

-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, I'm back on my soap box.
> 
> I've spent the past, like, month or so (probably close to 2 months now), completely changing my political stance. Which, for me, was a huge fucking deal. I had to start from scratch with most of what I based a lot of my deicision-making and debate on, and it's been- just- horrible, honestly. But also I feel a lot better on where I stand, even though its... uh... it's weird actually, because this whole thing is connected to Cancer Crew, which isn't a very stable place to start piecing together a political opinion, but it was through CC that I found a bunch of people who were willing to actually have problematic discussions about a lot of current issues. Like I realized that when I was buried in the "progressive Left," I would purposely not find sources for things and I would ignore statistics that I didn't want to acknowledge in order to continue believing the things I wanted to believe. Like anything that went contrary to what I believed, I ignored, is what I'm saying. Anyway, I just got sick of always losing debates because my opponent could literally tear down my argument with, like, one solid statistic, because everything I said was built on ideas, and pretty fallible ones at that. 
> 
> I got red-pilled as fuck, basically, and now sit somewhere at moderate Libertarian (after plowing through a bunch of other shit. Smh.) I don't know if any of this means anything to the people reading this fanfic, but it's the reason I spent so long on this chapter. Like there was a time a couple weeks back where I couldn't talk or think about anything that wasn't political. Like I needed a cool down period before I could get back into the fanfic otherwise I'd be literally spouting propaganda instead of giving y'all a solid gay smut.
> 
> Thank you for waiting for me to catch up with myself, though. All the comments asking me where this chapter was were actually extremely helpful. It reminded me that I still needed to get my shit in line. I had an obligation to see this thing through, for the sake of all of you who waited so patiently. :* I know the chapter was a little short, and not a lot happened, but, eh. I got it done and posted.
> 
> (If any of you want to talk politics, I'm open. I would also encourage you to find news sources that either don't have a bias, or admit their bias. That's the biggest step in the right direction to figuring out where you really sit on the political spectrum.)


	16. MGMT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo, I had the stomach flu, y'all. Not pleasant. So this is late. Again. ://

“Hello?” The voice crackled over the phone. The stairwell echoed with Ian’s footsteps, the sound rattling in the air as he skipped downwards, falling fast. Ian held the phone tightly against his face.

“Hi,” Ian said, tucking his other hand in his pocket. “How’s it going?”

“Fucking brilliant. Been editing shit all day.” Max yawned, distorting his voice. “What’s up with you?”

“Just enjoying my vacation,” Ian said.

“Oh? Shit, how’s that going?”

“Too much coke, and not enough strippers.”

“Sounds fun,” Max said low. There was a pause.

“Have you ever met Goomba?” Ian asked. He had a stupid idea; a very retarded idea. 

“Goomba?”

“I mean… Goomba’s not her real name. I think she’s George’s ex or something.” Ian winced. This was actually more retarded than he thought. “She’s a stripper.”

“I might know Goomba. What’s she look like?”

“I don’t know. Brown hair. Skinny.” Ian got to the bottom of the stairs and opened the door to the lobby. He crossed the concrete floor and walked out onto the dim street, a chilly breeze brushing against his face. “Are you telling me George has had more than one stripper girlfriend?”

“Is her hair kind of everywhere?”

“I guess?”

“Hm. Might be Yazz.”

“Yazz? Is that a name?” Ian started down the sidewalk towards the gas station.

“Yeah, I think it’s French.” Max shifted audibly. “Why didn’t she give you her real name?”

“I… didn’t really ask for it. George called her Goomba- I don’t know.”

“That’s classic.” Max cleared his throat. “So what happened with Yazz?”

“Oh, uh,” Ian chuckled, then bit his lip. He was going to lie his way out of the faggotry if it killed him. “That’s a good question.”

“Dude, you did not fuck George’s stripper ex. That’s fucked up.”

“I don’t know, man. I was drunk.” Ian switched hands, holding the phone with the one and scrubbing his brow with the other.

“Are you serious? Jesus, Ian,” Max laughed. “How did it happen?”

“We were at some weird basement club-”

“You, Yazz, and George?”

“No, George was at home.” Ian made a face and shook his head, not at all liking the way this sounded at all. He was approaching the gas station, the lights from the convenience store pouring out onto the sidewalk. “It was me, Goomba- er, Yazz, and a friend of hers... Nothing happened with the friend, though.”

“You absolute cunt,” Max murmured. 

“Yeah, I know.”

“Does George know?” Ian didn’t know how to answer that question, held his tongue so he didn’t stammer. He was retarded. “I’m guessing he doesn’t, then. Ian, come on, man.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal.” Ian walked past the gas pumps. “We were just- doing shit in the bathroom, but we stopped. The clothes didn’t even come off.”

“I don’t know,” Max sighed. A pause. “Wait. Hold on. It’s, like, 4 in the morning where you are. What are you doing up so early? Or late?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Ian was standing next to the door of the convenience store, cast in shadow. The concrete ashtray smelled heavily of fresh cigarettes. That whole lie was probably for nothing. He actually felt like more of a faggot for having done it. “I, uh, talked to George about the medication.”

“Okay. How’d that go?”

“Good.” He hated the feeling he got when he said that. Ian sighed. “Well, I guess it depends on how you define ‘good.’”

“I would define ‘good’ as everything is on its way to being fixed, but I would settle for it’s already completely fixed and we can move on,” Max said lightly. It weirdly stung.

“Max, we can’t just fix this, you know that, right?” Ian kicked at the loose gravel under his feet.

“Yes, we can.” Max’s voice was hard. 

“ _ We _ can’t-”

“Someone’s gotta fix this.”

“ _ George _ has to fix this-”

“Let me ask you this: what did you actually talk about? What did he say to you- I mean, in regards to the medication.” Ian chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking for a moment.

“He said he didn’t want to deal with the side-effects,” Ian said. “He just wanted to deal with it later.”

“George isn’t fixing it.” 

“Yeah.” Ian paused, waited for Max to talk again. When he didn’t, Ian walked into the convenience store, bell ringing as he opened the door. To the left of him were aisles of packaged food products, in the back was a wrap around fridge of bottled drinks. To the right was the check-out, behind which stood a half-asleep clerk, further back was another counter that had the slurpee and coffee machines, as well as a display case of donuts, sandwiches and salads. Ian walked towards the back counter. “I think we just have to give him time to figure this out on his own. This is his decision.”

“His decision... Ian, no. No, this isn’t his decision. He needs help.”

“‘Help’ isn’t going to help if he doesn’t want it.” Ian tucked the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he stopped in front of the coffee machine. 

“Then what can we do? Nothing?”

“I wouldn’t say nothing-”

“Because I’m  _ not _ just gonna sit around and wait for something bad to happen.”

“I’m not saying we do. Listen-”

“Then what exactly _ can _ we do, Ian?”

“You can stop acting like a dramatic bitch, for one,” Ian said a little too loud for the quiet store, an empty coffee cup in his hand. He looked back at the clerk; the clerk stared straight ahead, totally unphased. Ian turned back to the coffee machine. “I know you’re worried, but you take shit too far sometimes. All you’re doing is ostracizing him.”

There was a longish pause. Ian bit the inside of his cheek.

“Point taken.” Max’s voice was curt. Ian closed his eyes for a moment, relieved. He continued tentatively.

“I feel like if we lay this responsibility on  _ him _ , he’ll be more inclined to fix it himself.”

“And I just feel like his mental illness prevents him from doing that. From… taking initiative. I don’t know if he’s capable of dealing with this on his own. At least in the beginning.”

“Okay, that’s a valid point. Maybe we can help him help himself. Maybe we could just be more subtle about it,” Ian said, filling the second cup of coffee and placing it on the counter. He adjusted the phone before reaching to grab lids. “Like,  _ a lot _ more subtle.”

Max sighed.

“That feels like we’re doing nothing,” Max said.

“You should talk to him, then.” Ian popped the lids onto the coffee cups. “Fix the shit between you two, and then back off. Be his friend first, instead of, you know, his mom or something.”

“I still feel like we’re giving up. Like this sucks,” Max breathed. 

“I know,” Ian sad in a low voice. “But sorting this shit out- it takes a lot of time. A lot of effort. A lot of failure, you know, before it gets better.”

There was a pause.

“Ian, have you dealt with this before?” Max asked.

“With...?”

“Mental illness?”

“Uhm.” Ian slid the coffee cups into a carrier. “Yeah.”

Another pause.

“What, uh-”

“I’d rather not talk about it right now.” Ian carried the drinks to the clerk, putting them down on the counter and pulling out his wallet. The clerk pressed buttons on the register; the total came to $4.20. Ian and the clerk nodded at each other.

“That’s fine. That’s cool.” Max yawned. “You know, uh. I didn’t actually think you’d talk to George about- all this. I mean, I was really hoping you would, but you’re- well, you just don’t  _ seem _ like the type to deal with this kinda shit. That, on top of you said you weren’t going to deal with this kinda shit.”

“Funny how that works,” Ian said. He pulled a ten dollar bill out of his wallet; it was the smallest bill he had.

“I mean, it wasn’t so bad was it?”

“No, not so bad,” Ian said, pursing his lips as the clerk handed him his change. Max yawned again. “Dude, it’s 4 in the afternoon where you are, why are you so tired?”

“Oh, who knows?” Max said. “Might just take a nap before supper.”

Ian grabbed the drinks and walked back out into the brisk early morning darkness. Ian could see George’s apartment building, tucked behind other buildings of brick and steel, from where he stood. The moon’s light glinted off the dull infrastructure. He clenched his jaw.

“Were you still wanting to plan something in Perth?” Ian asked. It took a moment for Max to respond.

“Should probably come up with some ideas for videos so George’ll agree to it, but… yeah. Perfect excuse to recreate this whole New York hedonism that you two are doing without me.” Max said. “I wish I could’ve just come to New York with you guys. It sounds like you’re having a shit ton of fun.”

Ian laughed, overcome by the dramatic irony of it. He ducked his head.

“Who doesn’t love cocaine and strippers?” Ian asked, clearing his throat and starting down the sidewalk back to George’s apartment. 

“Faggots,” Max said definitively. Ian huffed a laugh.

 

-

 

Ian turned the key in the lock, quietly pushed the door open with coffee carrier in hand, and entered the halcyon apartment. He’d walked the majority of the trek home in silence after hanging up with Max; the quiet of the dark early morning had invaded his mind like static as he’d moved steadily closer to the building, to George, alone in his apartment, lying asleep in bed somewhere above the skyline, like a fleck of red paint on a white wall.

By the time he got to the apartment door, he’d realized how fucking tired he was and was unsure why exactly he’d actually decided to buy the coffee.

Ian took a sighing breath, padding around the trash on the floor with ease, placing the keys back on the kitchen counter before walking down the hallway. 

George’s bedroom door was still open; Ian stopped under the lintel, unashamedly gawking at George’s relaxed, sleeping expression, lit by the yellow light seeping from the lamp on the end-table, his glossy hair sweeping across his forehead and dark eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. George’s blanket was pulled up to his shoulder, lightly touching his face.

Ian crept into the room, crossed the length of it to the bed, placing the carrier on the bed-side table and turning off the lamp before kneeling down in front of the sleeping George. By the cool light from the curtained window his eyes adjusted, as he gingerly pushed George’s hair off his face, fingers trailing along George’s jawline. George breathed steadily; his eyes remained closed. Ian leaned forward, brushing his lips against George’s forehead, hand laced in George’s hair. Ian pulled away, looking down at George, his fingers lingering.

Ian extracted himself, lifting himself to his feet. He wasn’t going to try to climb into bed; he didn’t want to wake George up. He instead turned, leaving the carrier where it was, and started towards the door.

“Stay.” George’s voice was quiet, whispering. Ian looked back at George’s prone figure, hesitating only in that his sudden overwhelming exhaustion left him sickly in awe. 

Ian shrugged tiredly out of his shirt, shuffling back to the bed. He climbed over George to the open space; George turned to face Ian, tossing part of the shared blanket over Ian, who gladly pulled it over his shoulder as he curled closer to George. George sighed as they relaxed into the bed.

“Thanks for getting coffee,” George whispered. Ian nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I structured and restructured that conversation over the course of probably like four days to the point that I can't really even tell if it makes sense or not. Like this phone conversation between Max and Ian probably had about 15 reiterations that all kinda eventually melted down to what you see here. Just, like, fun fact.


	17. XXXTENTACION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm unceremoniously dumping this here because I wrote it a long time ago and neglected to post it. I have one more chapter that I've already written (also written a long time ago), that I might as well give to you. Sorry about, like, not posting and being a dumb ass.

 

Late afternoon and Ian still hadn’t left the bed. He’d woken up and dozed off a half dozen times. He’d sometimes caught George awake, lying on his back and staring blankly at the ceiling, obviously lost in thought. Ian would roll back over. Around four in the afternoon, Ian woke to George sliding out of bed. George yanked on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed his phone from the dresser and walked out of the bedroom, his footsteps leading out into the kitchen.

Ian sighed, feeling a little guilty about how the day had flown by. He’d had a chance to get up at 10 am, when he’d woken up the first time, but he’d been comfortable... and George had stayed in bed, too. Ian realized selfishly that he wished George would just come back to bed, lay around some more, sleep. It felt like quality time together, even if they weren’t doing anything; it was relaxing, which was something Ian generally felt sorry for. He buried his face in George’s pillow, aimlessly frustrated.

George came back into the room, on the phone. Ian turned his head so his face was no longer squished into the pillow. George timidly met his eyes, sat down at the foot of the bed, crossing his legs Indian style. He nodded and hummed in agreement with whoever was on the phone.

“I  _ should  _ call my mom,” George said into the phone. Pause. The audio from the phone sounded like a buzzing mumble to Ian. “I mean, yeah. Uh, well. I don’t know, actually.”

Ian sat up, his legs straight out in front of him. He’d fallen asleep in his jeans, which were now rumpled and creased.

“No, I get that…” George pursed his lips. “Thanks. Really.”

George stretched his back, face brightening a little as he met eyes with Ian again. Ian raised his eyebrows.

“Fuck you,” George laughed, responding to something Ian couldn’t hear. “No, it’s not- what? No, Jesus fuck. You’re retarded.”

Ian checked the coffees on the nightstand. Obviously, they were cold. He entertained the idea of microwaving them, but then the idea of microwaved gas station coffee wasn’t too appetizing.

“Well, I’ve got to check the schedule,” George said, sounding a mite more reserved than before. “Hold on, hold on. Can we text out the details later? I’ve got to get off.”

George winked at Ian. The innuendo wasn’t lost on him.

“Sure, man. No problem. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” George hung up. Ian waited, hoping George would just tell him who was on the phone without him having to ask. Ian had a hunch, but he wasn’t about to assume. But, instead, George said: “I think you owe me something.”

“I owe you something?”

“Yeah,” George grabbed Ian’s ankles, pushing them back so Ian’s knees were bent; George’s hands slid up to Ian’s knees as he peered up at Ian. 

“Oh. Right.” Ian cleared his throat. The thought was embarrassing, and he wasn’t quite sure how to make it not embarrassing.

“So,” George said.

“So,” Ian said back. It was startling to have something physical have this much tension in it again. Ian was nearly back to square one.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, I can’t read you.” George murmured, leaning down to kiss the knee of Ian’s jeans.

“Uhm... honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“It’s… just- it’s a little humiliating, a little-” Ian trailed off. George seemed to consider that, fingers idling. 

“What part of it’s humiliating?”

Ian looked down at his thighs. He didn’t want to admit, maybe more to himself than to George, that he was on the fence about it. Maybe he  _ did _ want to try it. But he also didn’t want to give the impression that he was totally enthusiastic about it either.

“Is it humiliating when I do it?” George asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Ian answered. “But you know what you’re doing. I wouldn’t. It- I’d be- I couldn’t control… I feel like I’d feel too- uhm-”

“Vulnerable?”

Ian cringed at the word.

“So you completely don’t want to do it?” George asked. Ian hesitated. “Look, I’m not into coercion. If you don’t want to do it, just say. If you do, though... you have a mental out for responsibility.”

“Well, I don’t want to waste a perfectly good mental out for responsibility…” Ian joked, but he could feel George still wanting a clear answer. “Can we just- go slow? And if it’s too much, we just stop?”

“That’s the only way  _ to _ do it.”

 

-

 

Laying on the bed while George rifled through his mysterious top drawer Ian started feeling an uneasiness rising. 

“Take the jeans off,” George instructed from the dresser. Ian kicked off his pants without getting up, all together on edge, impatient. Because he’d gone commando, he was now naked. George came back to the bed, tossed his small arm full of things next to Ian. Dildos and lube bounced before settling.

“What are, uh-”

“Just trust me,” George sat on the far edge of the bed, position same as before. George’s hands snaked up Ian’s legs similarly, stopping at his knees, except this time he gently persuaded them apart. Ian let his thighs separate, defenseless. He could feel his face growing warm, reddening.

George crawled between Ian’s legs, put his knees underneath Ian’s thighs so Ian’s legs were on either side of him. George leaned forward, hovering his body over Ian’s. He propped himself up, his hand pressed into the mattress, before craning his neck and kissing Ian, at first gingerly, then aggressively, sucking on Ian’s tongue as his hand wrapped around Ian’s cock. Ian focussed on George’s lips, the taste of his mouth.

George pulled away, looked down at Ian with a rousing expression.

“Don’t freak out,” he said, his fingers mindlessly stroking. He placed another quick kiss on Ian’s lips (Ian leaned into it, chasing the familiarity) before moving down, making a line from Ian’s jaw, to his neck, his collarbone, chest, ribs, stomach. 

Ian shifted uneasily. George had obviously gone down on him before, but this felt different. The attention was different; George was different. His assertiveness, which was usually assertively bottom, was now assertively domineering.  Ian was trying to get used to his legs being spread. He was awkwardly hyper aware of his feet, unsure of where to put them.

Once George made it to Ian’s hips, he irreverently licked, mouthed, and sucked Ian everywhere around but except his dick. George held it’s base, only halfheartedly rubbing it with his thumb. Ian, in spite of himself, groaned, frustrated.

“Okay, okay, chill out.” George chuckled, situating himself. He curved forward, keeping his hair out of his face with one hand and holding Ian’s cock up with the other. He took the tip in his mouth and sucked gently, his lips loose, letting his spit roll down Ian’s flush skin. Ian closed his eyes, humming his uneasy approval. When his hips involuntarily hitched, his erection at full-mast, George sat up, wiping the spit off his lip. Ian opened his eyes and looked down at George, knew he probably looked pissed.

“Which finger?” George asked, holding up his hand, fingers splayed. Ian looked at them dumbly for a second.

“Uh. I don’t know. Index?” George seemed surprised at that.

“Skipping the pinkie then.”

“Oh.” George had opened the lube, squeezed some onto his finger before rubbing it between his fingers to warm it up. Ian held his breath and glared at the ceiling. 

He felt George’s finger run across his asshole, flinched as an unsure sigh escaped his lips, releasing the held breath. George stroked across the opening, his other hand caressing Ian’s inner thigh, until Ian stopped jolting. 

“Don’t overthink it. Okay?” George murmured. His finger had stopped over Ian’s hole. 

“Oka-ah,” George hadn’t waited for the answer, instead pressing his finger into Ian. Ian huffed a sigh, his fingers mindlessly moving on the bed sheets. “Okay- okay, okay-” 

“How’s that feel?” George asked.

“I- don’t know.”

“Hmph.” Ian could feel George pushing his finger in farther, a consistent slide until his entire finger was in. George twisted it, hooking his finger upward. He rubbed inside him, a slow and insistent movement. “Is it uncomfortable?”

“Define ‘uncomfortable.’”

“How about this?” At first, there wasn’t a change; Ian opened his mouth to say so. But instead of some non-committal sarcastic comment, a Godawful gasp escaped him as George focussed his finger on a specific spot.

“What the fuck,” Ian breathed. He reached for his dick, which had lost some of its steam, a sudden deep ache in his hips. George continued his massage, a slow methodical treatment with periodic relubing. Every time George pulled his finger out to reapply and subsequently pushed it back in, it was easier for Ian to ignore his alarm.

“Two?” George asked, his finger sliding out again. He held up his slippery hand, showing Ian what his two fingers looked like together, what they measured. Ian nodded, scatter-brained.

The new girth took a bit more adjusting. George started at one knuckle, making the small movements from tip to knuckle until Ian had gotten used to it. Ian’s eyes had fallen closed again, his hand now preoccupied with his erection. George’s spit on Ian’s dick made for decent slickness, had Ian’s full attention on getting himself off.

George’s other hand interfered with Ian’s, pulling his hand away from his dick. He entwined their fingers. He ducked forward, tongue flicking across Ian’s tip. He took it into his mouth as he pushed his fingers in to the second knuckle. Ian moaned, squeezing George’s hand, spreading his legs farther, and bucking his hips upward. George thwarted his attempt to drive any more of his erection into his mouth, and punished him with the full length of his two fingers.

“George- George, fuck-” Ian raked his other hand through his own hair. George slowly ran his tongue along the side of Ian’s dick, moving his fingers inside him with the same tedious sluggishness. George’s open mouth brushed where he’d licked, the inner part of his lips satin smooth, the contact annoyingly, purposely gossamer. George was content with torturing him. “Hah, please, please-”

“Please what?” George asked sincerely, the edge of his mouth pressed to the underside of Ian’s cock.

“I- hah- I don’t know- shit-” Ian struggled to speak, let alone to articulate a clear want. He felt over and under stimulated, and he didn’t know which was worse.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“ _ No.” _ Ian immediately regretted sounding so adamant. George raised his eyebrows, twisting and spreading his fingers while watching Ian’s face. Ian caved, allowing his expression to reflect his arousal, trying to keep his eyes focussed on George’s. George moved forward, eye contact kept, until he was less than an inch away from Ian’s face, his fingers still buried inside him. Ian was trying to keep some kind of dignity, even as George intensified his efforts. He plainly appraised Ian, tilting his head and taking in Ian’s pinched brows and hiccupping breaths, before kissing him with a low-burning desperation. 

Ian groaned against George’s mouth, breathing heavily through his nose. He held George close, forcing him to balance on his knees and free hand. Ian tugged at George’s sweatpants, yanking the elastic down and freeing his prick. George seemed surprised by this, his fingers slowing down considerably. Ian wrapped his hand around George’s shaft. As he slowly stroked it, a part of him was estimating its length and girth. Another part of him was enjoying George’s physical reaction, the shifting perspective of what he was doing to George in return. George had stopped kissing him and was now staring, with his forehead pressed to Ian’s, at his own cock being stroked, poised between Ian’s spread legs. George removed his fingers from Ian’s asshole. A moment of panic feverishly buzzed in Ian’s chest, the predicted loss of control seeming to actualize in step like deja vu.

“Stop, stop, stop,” George gasped, yanked Ian’s hand away from his cock, his body tensing briefly. Ian blinked, stunned, his wrist firmly gripped. 

George sighed, rolling his forehead against Ian’s, his hand shifting from holding Ian’s wrist to grasping his hand. An uncertainty, a hidden thought, flickered across George’s face, making his eyes on one hand hazy but on the other distressingly fixated.

“What?” Ian asked under his breath. George shook his head, coming out of it.

“Nothing. Just- not so fast. Three fingers?” George asked, changing the subject. “Or we could try one of the toys.”

“Let me see the toy options,” Ian said. George released Ian’s hand. He hesitated, looking down at the sweatpants hanging just below his hips, his erection pressed to his stomach. George maneuvered his way out of his pants before turning to look through the assortment of silicone toys he’d brought.

“Well,” George held up a blue thing, bulbous at the top then a normal shaft with a flared base. “This might be fun.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Don’t be a pussy,” George said, lubing the dildo. He passed the head across Ian’s taint before lining it up.

“Don’t be a pussy, that’s rich,” Ian joked, trying to adjust his legs. George pressed down; Ian’s body gave resistance. Ian clenched his jaw, curled his toes. George let up, passively smoothing the slick skin with the toy and letting Ian regain his composure, before pushing in again. He gave consistent pressure, mildly twisting it, his other hand gripping the bottom of Ian’s thigh. Ian forced himself to exhale, the air escaping his mouth as a low moan; he took a gasping breath, back arching, as the tip of the toy slid in.

Ian shifted his hips. It did in fact hurt. Not enough to be unbearable, but enough, and definitely more than before. He was biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to open his mouth.

“Stop moving your ass,” George said, holding the dildo in place.

“Ah, fuck,” Ian gasped, hands gripping the bed. George twisted it very gently without pushing it, which actually helped. Ian hummed, his hands twitching. George was holding under his knee now, which gave Ian a bit of a reprieve from having to hold his leg up himself.

“You’re fine, dude,” George reassured casually. “Calm down.”

“This- is tedious,” Ian said, grasping for conversation, stability.

“I know, right?” George grinned hawkishly. “That’s a major flaw.”

“I- ah- is it- does it feel like, uhm,” Ian closed his eyes, brow furrowed. “Getting fucked, is it-”

“It’s different,” George interrupted. “It’ll feel different.”

Ian tried to find something else to say, but his brain was somewhat fried.

“This-” George deliberately nudged the dildo forward. Ian tensed. “Is just rubber. Unattached. There’s no- human connection. Part of the pleasure is the mental aspect of it.” He was mumbling; Ian was trying to listen but was barely hearing him, thoughts occupied with the discomfort. “Someone using your body for their pleasure is  _ intimate _ . I guess it shouldn’t be; it’s base... utilitarian, is the word, I think. But they feel closer to you than you are to them. Then they fall apart, and you’re responsible. You get to _ see  _ it.” Ian had reached the end of the dildo, the base touching his thighs. He shivered, sweaty. “This is a shitty facsimile of a dick. It’s shit in comparison to the real thing. Using it just makes you want the real thing more. Desperate for it.” George was pulling it back out, stopped at the swell of the tip, then pushed it back in. Ian couldn’t hold back a groan. “It’s worse than jacking off. Even if you cum with this thing straight buried in your ass, it’s not satisfying. You just lay there, breathing heavy because of all the damn work you had to put into it, fantasizing about dick; real dick. Real hands holding your tired legs, real stomach pressing against yours, real hips rubbing against your ass-”

“George- George, man, I really- ah- appreciate- the- ugh- philosophy- it’s gr-ah- great dirty talk- and everything- but I really can’t- uh- understand- I can’t-” George had been thrusting the thing in and out of him, getting increasingly more intense with it. George stopped, hand leaving the dildo where is was, not-quite base deep. He took Ian’s hand and guided it down between Ian’s legs. Ian felt the base of the dildo, slick with lube. His fingers fumbled as George’s hand pulled it out, only slowing at the tip, until the knot had left his body, leaving a slippery softness. Ian ran his fingers over his asshole, could easily fit his middle and ring fingers into himself. George leaned forward, licking inner thigh up to Ian’s hand, tip of his tongue swiping the intersection between Ian’s entrance and Ian’s fingers. Ian pulled his fingers out, unnerved. Tongue continued, sweeping where Ian’s fingers had left, upper lip pressing against Ian’s taint.

This was definitely over-stimulating, the area having already been rubbed ultra-sensitive by the toy. Ian pressed a hand over his mouth, the one that hadn’t been in his asshole, muffling the noises he was no longer able to check. Ian carded his other greasy hand through George’s hair, holding him between his legs. George put a hand on Ian’s stomach, somewhat holding him down, as he tilted his head, pressing in with tongue and lips as far as he could go. Precum dripped onto George’s fingers.

George pulled away, gasping, the lower half of his face glistening. Ian was shaking.

“You want a kiss?” George joked before wiping the lube off his chin with his hand. Ian felt open, throbbing. His legs were sore, cramping. 

“Do it, before I change my mind,” Ian said decisively, looking straight up at George, his knees leaning against George’s sides, the most closed his legs had been since he’d opened them. He was answering a question he’d just realized the answer to. George faltered, sat back on his heels. Maybe he saw how wrecked Ian looked, but he put a hand on Ian’s knee, stroking it with his thumb.

“We- we have to… uhm… if you’re-” George said.

“George, for the love of God,” Ian groaned, grasping his own dick. His hand was slippery, making it much easier to glide against his skin. “Just do it.”

George was sifting through the things he’d brought over from the drawer.

“Shit, I forgot the condom. Hold on.” George started getting up from the bed.

“Skip it.”

“Are you sure-”

“Yeah, fuck it.” Ian spread his legs again, hips lurching.

“Because my pull-out game’s kinda, uhm- and I don’t want to cum inside you-”

“It seriously can’t be any worse than what’s already been shoved up my ass.” 

With that, George groped for the lube, flicking open the lid and drizzling it onto his member. Ian slid his hand back between his legs, so one hand was on his dick, the other with middle finger and ring finger on either side of his anus. George scooted forward. Ian felt the head of George’s dick touch his thigh.

“Relax, relax,” George inhaled. He rolled his hips forward, pushing in just the tip; Ian’s fingers brushing against the sides of his cock, feeling the moment of entry. “Oh- shit.”

Ian groaned, a full-throated sound, tipping his head to the side, arching his back, ribs quivering. His other hand was tugging tautly on his dick, not doing much honestly. He tried to keep his squirming to a minimum, biting his lips closed.

“More?” George asked, desperate. Ian nodded curtly. George pushed in to the base; Ian choked at the apex of the thrust.

“Ian, breathe,” George instructed breathlessly. Ian exhaled loudly, ending in a clear moan. George lifted Ian’s hips, leaning over Ian’s body to use the wall as support, his hair falling over his eyes as he hunched. “You good?”

“I’m good-” Ian sighed.

“I’m gonna start moving,” George said, rocking back. Ian grabbed George’s hips, tense.

“Slowly- slowly-” Ian chanted. George obliged, tugging his cock out of Ian carefully, pressing it in gingerly. Ian watched George’s concentration; George was looking down between Ian’s legs, mesmerized and guilty.

“Look- look at me,” Ian stammered. George looked up, catching Ian’s eyes. Ian searched him, gripped his sides. George thrust in hard; Ian jolted, but didn’t break eye contact. George carressed Ian’s cheek, focussing on their mutual movement, trying to sync up their efforts. They followed where the other’s expression took them, gasps and grimaces, until George was comfortably bucking his hips, Ian increasingly urging him on. George’s brows was pinched upward, almost sorrowfully, lips parted, the edge of his teeth visible. Ian had been reduced to inarticulate moaning, gasping for breath, indistinct complaining from discomfort, gratification, involuntarily slipping from his lips.

George knew what the fuck he was doing. He was deliberately angling his thrusts, searching for Ian’s pleasure in a careful process of elimination; slowed when he saw Ian’s absolutely devastated look - mouth soundlessly falling open, and eyes struggling to stay focussed-, careful not to lose his position.

Ian was edging without touching himself, knew he’d cum the moment he did. His hands idly moved from George’s sides to his ass. He, for brief endurance, didn’t give a shit if he came or not, enjoyed swaying at the brink, being able to concentrate on George’s body, his single-minded charging towards his end. George’s skin was satin, lustrous, pulling and pinching as his muscles tightened. While they’d been looking at each other before, it was quickly turning into Ian watching George as George fought escalation. He felt powerful, drunk with it; being able to do practically anything, gasp, moan, roll his hips, and make it harder for George to control himself. 

“Close?” Ian asked.

“Ian, that’s- that’s a retarded thing to- to ask,” George breathed. Ian exhaustedly laughed. George, trying to keep pace, his forehead brushing against Ian’s shoulder, coughed a laugh. He lifted himself again, looking at Ian with nothing short of worship. Ian’s expression fell semi-serious, taking in the sight of George, red-faced, sweaty, bright-eyed and loopy, before he reached down, wrapping a hand around his own dick. He pumped it a couple times, sedated, before he was pushed over the edge, cumming onto his stomach with George’s cock pressed deep inside him, a stumbling moan leaving him. George had watched his face, inhaled sharply as Ian’s body tremored, hips jerking forward. Ian let go of his twitching dick, wrapped his arms and legs (as best he could) around George, pulling him close and embracing him. George thrusted through Ian’s orgasm, held Ian as he lost himself, whined against Ian’s shoulder with every thrust. Ian was completely mindless, nearly numb, lost in time, only vaguely aware when George finally climaxed, whispering unintelligible praises against Ian’s skin. It could’ve actually been Japanese for all Ian knew. 

George was panting, their bodies still randomly trembling. Ian loosened his grip, arms and legs unwrapping themselves from around George. His head was swimming; he was blinking and visibly shocked. George seemed hesitant all of a sudden, wavering cock sliding out of Ian, trying to move out of the way. 

“I’m, uh-” George mumbled. “I didn’t-”

Ian didn’t want to hear it. He met George where he was, shoulders leaving the bed, uncaringly kissing George deep, groaning against George’s mouth because, wow, he was very sore. George thankfully pressed him back into the bed, lips soft, conservative. George pulled away.

“My mouth was- on your ass.”

“Oh. Right.” Ian was still coming back to reality.

George pushed the lube bottle and other assorted shit, most of which they hadn’t even used, to the foot of the bed, and carefully laid down next to Ian.

“I’m gonna have to change the sheets,” George murmured, eyes closed. Ian was aware of the mess, notably the cum, George’s cum, dripping out of him. He made a wry face at the ceiling. George opened his eyes, looked at Ian apologetically.

Ian was drifting back, and he didn’t know what to do with this; this whole, uh, scenario had been completely outside his imagination, something he’d never made a contingency plan for. Even when presented with the idea (last night, and he’d promptly left), he hadn’t really thought about it past a certain point, that point being literally the very beginning of the encounter. “Taking it in the ass” was a wisdom he hadn’t thought he’d ever acquire; and now that he intimately knew it, he wasn’t sure what kind of Pandora’s box of problems he’d previously not had to deal with that he’d just opened. Because he’d asked for it, he’d done it, and he hadn’t stopped. And George was… George was worriedly, fearfully watching him.

Ian turned his head, returning George’s look. Ian sighed, returned his gaze to the ceiling.

“I’m just going to be blunt with you,” Ian said in a low voice. George visibly prepared for the worst. “That was probably… the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“Okay.” Ian looked back to George. George looked like he was about to die.

“I don’t even think I’m exaggerating.”

“Cool.”

“I’m really hungry,” Ian said. “I also really need to take a shower.”

“You can go take a shower. I can make food,” George offered.

“Yeah.” Ian laid still a while longer, trying to gather strength. He was exhausted and smarting, but the call of the shower was a powerful one. He maneuvered himself out of bed, got himself to stand up, tried to take a step and his knees buckled. He caught himself, standing unsteady a step away from the bed. His inner thighs were wet, dripping. “Jesus Christ.”

“Maybe-” George started, getting up from the bed.

“I’m good,” Ian reassured. He took a stabilizing breath, then attempted a normal gait. He succeeded at a semi-normal staggering, just balanced enough to get to the bathroom, outside of George’s gaze, where he could lean heavily against the walls without boosting George’s ego any more than he already had. He’d closed the bathroom door behind him, sealing himself into the echoing quiet.

Ian didn’t know what he was thinking. Of course he hadn’t thought about the consequences; of course he’d just blindly walked into all of this. No, he supposed it wasn’t “blindly.” Not truly blind. He knew what he was doing, knew he probably shouldn’t be doing it. Had he resisted it enough, genuinely resisted it? He couldn’t recall, couldn’t point to a single action that had given any definite resistance. He was on the stand in front of court and jury, microphone catching the sound of his breath, judge asking him to repeat his statement on the urging of the prosecution.  _ Best sex he’d ever had. _ Jesus Christ, it was flagrantly gay. Just absolutely homosexual. Ian scrubbed his face with his hand. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a part of the problem, not the solution.


End file.
